POEMS BY ELIZA ALLEN STARR 



V. 




BY 



y. 



Eliza Allen 3'T^^f^^v 




PHILADELPHIA 
H McGRATH 1039 CHESTNUT STREET 
1867 V 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
ELIZA ALLEN STARR, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District 
of Pennsylvania. 

King & Baird, Printers, 607 Sansom St., Phila. 



P E D I C A T I O 



MY BELOVED FATHER, 

TO THE MEMORY, "iN BENEDICTION," OF 

MY BELOVED MOTHER, 

THESE FRUITS OF A HAPPY CHILDHOOD AND A C H E <^U E R E D LIFE 

gire Jaitbfullij pebicatcb. 



.<^f. Joieph^i Collar e^ 
Feast ol the Purification, 1867. 



Cv) 



CONTENTS. 



To my Father on his Birthday, ... I 

Mfere de Douleur, ...... 2 

The Meadow Home, ...... 4 

Autumn Flowers, ...... 5 

The American Artist, ...... 7 

The Lonely Window, . . 11 

The First Snow-Flake, . • '4 

The Ford, . 16 

The Wapping Homestead, . 19 

A Bed of Wild Violets in a Public Square, . 22 

Song of Welcome, ....... 24 

Song, .... .... 24 

Parting, 25 

Spring Birds, ..... .27 

Robin Redbreast's Valentine, . . 27 

Wishes, ....... 29 

Essie's Omen, ....... 30 

The Parlor Andirons, ...... 30 

Spring Winds and Spring Flowers, ... ^2 

(vii) 



Vlll 



Contents. 



A Reminiscence of Port Kent, 


35 


Faded, 


. . 36 


The Palmer's Rosary, .... 


37 


My Oratory, ...... 


• 39 


Early Called, 


40 


Forest Vespers, ..... 


• 42 


The Evening Primrose, .... 


44 


The Fringed Gentian, .... 


• 45 


The Woodland Grave, .... 


46 


From You, ...... 


• 47 


A Sunset at Spring Park, .... 


47 


In the Timber, .... 


• 49 


The Rest in Hope, ..... 


5i 


In Winter, ...... 


• 52 


Cold, 


54 


Stitches, ....... 


• 55 


The Spring, ...... 


56 


Six Stone Steps, ..... 


• 59 


The Evening Rain, ..... 


62 


Pruning, ...... 


. . 64 


A Request, ...... 


65 


One Hour after Death, .... 


. • 67 


A Leaf, 


68 


Song, • . 


. . 69 


A May Breeze, ...... 


70 


Peace, 


• 71 



Contents 



The Two Cities, . . . . 


72 


The Returned Regiment, . 


• 74 


Col. James A. Mulligan, 


• • 76 


Marian, ...... 


. 78 


With Thee, 


80 


A Word, 


. 82 


In Retreat, . . . . . 


84 


Lucifer Matutinus, .... 


. . . 85 


The Death of St. Joseph, . 


87 


Our Neighbor, .... 


. 89 


It is the World, 


90 


Occultation of Venus, 


. 91 


The Golden Gate, .... 


94 


Edith's Birthday, .... 


• 95 


The Faded Acorn, .... 


95 


Orion, . . ... 


. . . 96 


Winter, ...... 


. . 98 


Easter-Tide, 


. 100 


The Altar and the Hearth, . 


103 


The Paschal Flower, 


. 106 


Moths, ...... 


107 


The Confessor, .... 


. 109 


Supplication, ... 


1 1 1 


The Orphans' Cry, . 


.11^ 


The Children's Mass, . 


115 


Isabel!, .... 


. 116 



Contents. 



Robin Redbreast, , . . . . 


I 18 


To Fanny, ...... 


. 119 


Fido, 


121 


For Mary and Willie, . .^ . 


. 123 


Playfellows, ...... 


124 


A Child's Question, .... 


. 126 


"And the Virgin's Name was Mary," . 


128 


Christmas Carol, ..... 


. 130 


The Holy Name of Jesus, . . . . 


132 


The Angelus, 


• 134 


The Rosary, ...... 


. 136 


First of May, .... 


. 139 


Notre Dame, ...... 


141 


Mater Dei, ...... 


. 142 


Ave Maria, ...... 


. 146 


A Fancy, ...... 


, 147 


Regina Virginum, . . . . . 


. 148 


The Lily of the Purification, 


. 150 


Our Lady of the Angels, . . . . 


152 


Our Lady's Lilies, ..... 


• 153 


Our Lady of the Infirmary, . . . . 


154 


Regina, ...... 


. . 156 


Our Shepherd, ...... 


. 158 


A Child's "Requiescat in Pace," 


• '59 


A Year, 


160 


The Holy Innocents, .... 


. 161 



Contents. 



XI 



A Girl's Hymn to St. Agnes, 


163 


Saint Veronica, ...... 


165 


Saint Barnabas, ...... 


166 


Saint Gudula's Visit, ..... 


. 168 


Perugino's Magdalene, ..... 


170 


The Bell of the House of the Good Shepherd, . 


• 171 


Saint Lucy, ...... 


173 


Day of All Souls, 


. 176 


Holy Saturday, . . . ... 


. 178 


The Sign of the Cross, ..... 


• '79 


Penance, ....... 


181 


Confession, ....... 


■ 183 


Absolution, ...... 


186 


Christ in the Eucharist, ..... 


• 187 


Espousals, ....... 


189 


The Sacristan, ...... 


. 190 


Thanksgiving, ...... 


»93 


The Guest, .....*. 


• 19^' 


A Hidden God, 


•97 


Early Mass, ....... 


. 201 


Visit to an Empty Tabernacle, 


203 


"Behold I Stand at the Door and Knock," 


. 204 


Sudden but not Unprovided, 


206 


A Family Motto, ...... 


. 208 


Spinis Coronati, ...... 


21 I 


The Divine Prisoner's Flower, 


.212 



Xll 



Contents. 



SONNETS. 



The Good Shepherd, . 

Sonnet, . - • • 

Mount Hope Asylum, 

To the August Cricket, . 

To Snow-Flake, . 

Expectation, . 

The Dying Sumach, . 

The Violin and Violoncello, 

Anniversary, 

Delia, . . • • 

The Keokuk Pebble, . 



214 

. 215 

216 

• 217 
218 

. 219 
220 

. 221 
222 

• 223 
224 




POEMS 



To MY FaTH 



EPx 



V 



ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 



Relenting breezes greet thy natal day, 

iVIy honored father ; and the early shower, 

Though fruitless yet of leaf or opening flower. 

As genial falls as softest rains of May : 

So softly, and with reverent touch as they, 

My filial hand would turn, with sacred care, 

The page where all the dear memorials are 

Of thy parental love ; and ne'er decay, 

Or growth of new affection, or the stress 

Of life's increasing cares, shall dim the lines 

Through which such clear, benignant beauty shines ; 

Or make that touching record one the less, 

Whicli rather grateful memory entwines 

With budding wreaths mv fresh allegiance to express. 



Mere De Douleur. 
Mere De Douleur. 

'Neath a picture of the blessed 

Ever Virgin Mother, dear, 
With its cheek of patient dolour 

Wetted with one holy tear. 

Sits my own beloved mother, 
In the meekness of her age. 

With a ripening patience turning 
Life's late, autumn-tinted page — 

Sits beneath its sacred shadow 

As beneath a lovely vine. 
On whose fair, benignant branches. 

Sweetest-smelling clusters shine. 

Placidly across her features 

Strays a meditative smile. 
Lighting up their tender pallor 

With a gleam of heaven ; the while 

Her soft lips in mildest silence 
Close upon a lovely thought, 

By the Virgin's mournful aspect 
To her inmost feeling brought. 



Mere De Dotileur. 

O my mother dear, as gentle 

As the south winds, breathing now 

O'er our richly flushing forests 
And thy softly furrowed brow, 

Never, never may thy spirit, 
'Neath a darker shadow pine. 

Than beneath these pictured dolours 
Of this Mother, most benign. 

Never may more bitter juices 
Wet those patient lips of thine, 

Than the juices of the clusters 
Purpling o'er that virgin vine. 

And, O mortal mother, darling. 
May thy soul, in faith repose. 

Under its celestial shadow. 
When thy dying eyelids close 

On the flitting shades and sunshine 
Of thy swiftly fleeting race : 

Jesus! Mary! Joseph! aid her! 
Shield her in your loved embrace ! 



T^he Meadow Home. 
The Meadovs^ Wome. 

Of all fair abodes where I am welcome, 
One alone is home, howe'er I roam \ 

Dear attraction, swift returns compelling, 
Lovely birth-place, lovely Meadow Home. 

Nested in a quietness domestic, 

How serenely, pleasantly it stands. 

Mid the leafy shades and genial sunshine 
Of the fair, abounding meadow-lands. 

Orchard blooms float through the open window. 
Maple boughs upon the roof-tree rest. 

Soft blush-roses round the pathway cluster. 
In the sweetbrier redbreast makes her nest. 

Round the sunny " L " the grape-vines clamber. 
Barn-roofs rise in sunny peace beyond. 

Swarming bees range over fields of clover. 

Clucks the brooding hen with flutterings fond. 

P'ar off stretch the green and teeming acres 
To the circle of the wooded hills ; 

Here and there an elm-crest soars majestic. 
Watered by the moist turf's oozing rills. 



Autumn Flowers. 

Broadly flashing to the summer sunlight, 

Through the meads in peaceful windings long, 

Noisy shallows, deep-resounding rapids. 
Flows Pocomtuck, tuneful as a song. 

And my inmost heart is daily conscious 
Of a fresh contentment, new delight. 

In the mill-stream's near, familiar voices. 
And the hay-field's every pleasant sight — 

Ever conscious of a swelling feeling, 

Which would pour itself in sweetest sound, 

When, in wanderings, I am but reminded 

Of my Meadow Home's most distant bound. 



Autumn Flowers. 

The wild Asters and the Golden-rod, 
In their beautv and their prime, 

With the sun-light on their mingling leaves. 
In the bright September time — 



T^he Autumn Flowers, 

In copse, in glen, by the woodpath's green, 

And in every lonely place, 
The Asters bloom and the Golden-rod, 

Like a smile on nature's face. 

When the rustling corn is gathered in, 

And the days are warm and bright. 
When the orchard casts its mellow fruit 

In the deep autumnal light ; 
When the maple tops and sumach leaves 

Are flushed with a crimson stain, 
The Asters still and the Golden-rod 

Are fresh on meadow and plain. 

When the shivering leaves drop sear and dry 

To the cheerless earth to rest. 
And even the blue-fringed Gentian's blooms 

Lie dead on its desolate breast ; 
That bleak, sad pause in the pleasant year. 

When the harvest-fields are bare. 
The Asters wild and the Golden-rod 

In the sunshine cold are there. 

The autumn wind and the autumn rain. 
But they nod and bloom the while, 



T'he American Artist. 

And when the wind and the rain are past 

Look out with a quiet smile, 
From copse and glen, and the wood-paths drear, 

And the leaves, cold, damp and dun. 
With a golden crest and star-bright eye. 

To welcome a smiling sun. 



The American Artist. 

Upon his couch at eventide. 

With earnest, restless eye. 
An artist watched the paling tints 

Of sweet Italia's sky, 
As o'er fair temple, palace, dome. 

And aisles of glorious dead. 
And Coliseum of old Rome, 

The lingering light was shed. 

The crimson rays flashed proudly up ; 

And on that wasted cheek. 
So pensive in its manliness. 

So sadly, strangely meek. 



The American Artist. 

The hectic spot burned deep and bright, 
And those dark, troubled eyes 

Seemed, in their wild intensity. 
To melt into the skies. 

A sudden moisture o'er them passed, 

Like mist o'er some bright star 
That sheds above the solemn seas 

Its radiance afar. 
He bowed his head and pressed it close 

Within his fevered palm. 
As if to crush the thought that broke 

His spirit's lofty calm. 

His life's wild passion-flame was spent — 

His wildering dream of fame ; 
Amid the halls of glorious art 

He wearied of a name ! 
A melting thought of homely scenes 

O'er his weak spirit swept — 
A yearning for familiar things ; 

He bowed his head, and wept. 

" O, let me breathe my native air 
Once more before I die !" 



T'he American Artist. 

And raised his feeble hands to Heaven 

With agonizing cry. 
"O, let me tread my native hills, 

Their fields of stately corn, 
And stand beneath the elms that shade 

The spot where I was born !" 

They bore him from the city's heat. 

Its splendor's painful glare. 
To lovely Como's quiet lake. 

Its fresh and fragrant air. 
The vine-leaves clustered round his door, 

Young roses climbed the wall. 
And soothingly the wave's low voice 

Came up at even-fall. 

It mingled softly with his dreams 

Through all the starry night. 
While through the dewy orange boughs 

Quivered the pale moonlight. 
Yet from that nested loveliness 

Went out a wailing cry : 
" O, let me breathe my native air 

Once more before I die !" 
1* 



lo 'The American Artist. 

His couch stood empty by the wall, 

And In his favorite bowers 
That sad young face was missed at morn, 

And at the shut of flowers. 
The Como rolled its crystal tide, 

Italia's groves were fair. 
But tenderly the peasant named 

The stranger in his prayer. 

He stood upon the vessel's deck, 

His pulse beat fast and high, 
And steadfast on the filling sails 

He fixed his eager eye. 
" O, for one glimpse of that dear shore ! 

I tearless could depart. 
If I might press its coldest clod 

Once more upon my heart !" 

Long weeks had passed ; a faint blue line 

In misty distance lay, 
And manly hearts and steady eyes 

Had sought it day by day. 
They sought it for the stranger's sake. 

To quench the mania thirst 
That strengthened on his wasting frame, 

And by his life was nurst. 



The Lonely Window. 

For he had grown a gentle care, 

Through that one, moving cry, 
" O, let me breathe my native air 

Once more before I die !" 
Land ! land ! they raised him from his couch. 

That on the deck was spread — 
One short, faint cry of wild delight — 

The artist's soul had fled. 



The Lonely Window, 

O how sadly looks out 
On the clear winter night 

That lone chamber window, ' 
Closely curtained in white. 

No dear hand now removes 
The still folds from their rest. 

Still and cold as the shroud 
0*er some beautiful breast. 



12 I' he Lonely Window. 

No light now ever streams 

That high, fair casement through, 

From it never outleans 

The shght form we once knew. 

The low bed is empty. 
And the cold pillows bear 

No more the fair temples 
And moist clustering hair. 

Ah me ! to remember 

That desolate chamber. 

And to think that such gloom 

Should e'er shadow his room, 

The sunniest hearted 

Of all who once parted 

With a smile and " Good night !" 

From the fireside so bright ! 

The hoarse winds sweeping chill 
That far burial hill — 
Alas ! how those winds smite 
Mv sad heart, if at night 



The Lonely Window. 

I but chance remember 

The warm sleep he once slept — 

So beloved, now so wept — 

In that white-curtained chamber. 

But rich consolation 
For such desolation, 
The promise Paternal 
Of mansions eternal, 
Where the weary may rest, 
And the soul be made strong 
To press to the meek throng 
Of the perfectly blessed ! 

And how close to my heart 

This one promise I press, 
And how soothes its sweet voice 

Every throb of distress, 
Though the tears may still gush 

As, returning at night, 
That lone casement I see, 

Closely curtained in white. 



T'he First Snow-Flake. 
The First Snow-Flake. 

I well remember how, a girl, 

I watched the first fair snow-flake whirl 

From cold November's evening sky, 

With pensive mind and thoughtful eye, 

And, almost hour by hour, would peer 

Through the gray, snowy atmosphere. 

For Leyden hills of distant blue, 

For Hoosac hills and pastures too. 

And the pale gleam of tombstones' chill 

Upon the lonely burying hill ; 

For many a homestead's chimney dear 

In village far, or village near. 

And catch the first far candle's light 

That glimmered through the coming night. 

And now, though I no longer dwell 
Among those scenes I loved so well. 
The first snow-flake I never see 
Fall, softly, through the air to me, 
But once, once more I nestle down 
A child among the homesteads brown. 
And by the same broad windows lean 
To watch the twilight's pensive scene. 



'The First Snow-Flake. 15 

How many a mossy roof I tain 

Would stand beneath but once again ! 

How many a fireside's mirth would share, 

Its last affliction or its care ; 

Its changes sad, or changes gay. 

Its marriage feast and holiday ; 

Its children, I have never seen, 

But whom I still should know, I ween ; 

And in a kindly gossip spend 

A pleasant evening with a friend. 

And often do I close my eyes 
Upon the world's old vanities ; 
The sigh for wealth, the pride of place, 
Not fear of sin but sin's disgrace ; 
And, leaving living foe or friend. 
Above those grass-grown hillocks bend. 
Where slumbers, on the darling dust 
In which affection put its trust. 
The fair, fresh face of joyous youth. 
The heart which keeps its guileless truth, 
The placid face of patient age, 
The matron mild, the hoary sage ; 
And wet again with faithful tears 
The graves I have not seen for years. 



1 6 The Ford. 



The F 



ORD. 



" One of the wonders, with us children, was the Ford : 
How your eye lights and kindles only at the word ! 
From the village, past the willow, elms, past the mill. 
Ran the road — every turn I can remember — till 
It reached the river's bank ; then, with a steep descent, 
Straight down into the shallows of the stream it went. 
Our heads grew giddy always, and a chill of dread 
Crept over us, when first we felt the stony bed 
Beneath the wheels ; how strong, too, seemed the 

current ; strayed 
The wagon, and we thought " old Sorrel " also swayed 
With head grown giddy like our owm ; and yet delight 
Was mingled strangely with this hush of childish fright : 
The running waters had a cool fresh sound ; the tip. 
Very tip of our longest finger but to dip 
In that clear stream beside us, was a joy untold. 
And only to be won by those who were most bold : 
With sharp regret we found ourselves brought safe to 

land 
Upon the other bank ; how tame the yielding sand. 



The Ford. 17 

How quiet, too, the road along the sumach hedge, 
How quiet, too, our tongues ; but from each pine 

crowned ledge 
Of the winding, rocky, hillside road, as we soared, 
We turned wistful eyes, catching glimpses of the Ford. 

^' In summer oft and oft we watched the heavy wain, 
Loaded high with fragrant hay, sunny sheaves of grain. 
Drawn by patient oxen 'cross the Ford ; how thev bent 
Their sturdy necks against the yoke, and bravely lent 
Their weight to stem the stream, as " hock-ho-haw !" 

called out 
The watchful farmer with his cheery guiding shout ; 
Then up the steep bank pressed, with panting, dripping 

side. 
To stand and breathe within the elm-grove's shadow 

wide. 
All these were pleasant pictures ; but below the Ford 
Whirled the mysterious Eddy, and with fear we heard 
Of youths adventurous suddenly drawn in to die. 
The widow's eldest son, you know she lived close by. 
They told us was drowned there : on her we looked 

with awe. 
As death had come to her through some peculiar law ; 



1 8 The Ford. 

Beside, her idiot girl, with thick and gibberish speech, 
Or, in her fits of anger, wild unearthly screech, 
Who kept, year in, year out, her well -stuffed easy-chair. 
Stitching her bits of calico with aimless care. 
Her crippled, helpless figure, supple, gaunt and tall. 
And long fore-finger pointed at us like an awl, — 
The mother's mild-toned wish that we would ' often 

come,' 
A strange, strange charm gave to the widow's humble 

home." 

Thus Margaret chatted on, till, looking up, she caught 
Her good companion napping ; then her dreamy thought 
Took wings instead of words ; the " Vineyard's " 

pleasant road. 
Bordered with roses, to her wakened memory showed 
Aglow with morning, while the older one which led 
Southward to " The Bars' " far-famed and ancient 

homestead. 
With its well-treasured history of noble dead. 
Of how and where each fought, and where each vic- 
tim bled. 
All rose before her in that early, tender light. 
When all the world was strange and beautiful to sight. 



The Wapping Homestead. 19 

The Ford no longer passable, the Eddy too 

Filled up, and those fair homesteads, crowned with 

honor due, 
Have passed to other hands ; scarce would poor Mar- 
garet know 
Those places now, but still her earnest cheeks will 

glow. 
And her quick memory kindles, onlv at a word 
Of the happy childhood spent in sight of The Ford. 



The Wapping Homestead, 

Tidings surely must be coming. 
For I waked this morning, dreaming 
Of my dear old uncle's homestead — 
Dear old uncle, long since dead : 
Rest eternal on his head ! 
Dear old homestead quaint and brown. 
From the green knoll looking down 
On the winding village street, 
Over which the green boughs meet — 



20 T^he Wafping Homestead. 

On the homestead of the neighbors 
Rousing for their harvest labors, 
And the herd of lowing cows, 
Which along the roadside browse, 
On their way to pastures still — 
" Cooley pasture" on the hill. 

AK day long, a homesick feeling 
Has been o'er my senses stealing ; 
Memories of the olden time 
Run, despite me, into rhyme ; 
And, as in my childish days. 
Through the Hackmatacks I gaze, 
Down the winding village street. 
Over which the green elms meet, 
On the dear, familiar places — 
On the still far dearer faces ; 
In the garden pull ripe cherries. 
With my aunt pick black raspberries ; 
Watch the thrifty white rose-bush. 
And the lilac branches push 
Just one side to see again 
The ground nest of Lady Wren, 
Or the squirrel's bushy back 
Flitting through the Hackmatack ; 



The Wapping Homestead. 2i 

On the stepping-stone's broad face 
Take again my happy place, 
With hushed heart and hps quite mute 
While my cousin blows his flute, 
Till its cadences serene 
Tranquilize the moonlit scene. 

Lowly joys, how oft unprized ! 

Oft in youth perchance despised ; 

Or when passion's swifter tide 

Hurried to that ocean wide. 

On whose waste and beaten shore 

The wild billows, in uproar. 

Cast the wreck of hopes long o'er. 

Now, the heavy storm-clouds lifted, 

Into calmer waters drifted, 

From far off, the wild shores over. 

Floats the scent of summer clover ; 

Floats a vision, O how tender ! 

Summer fulness, autumn splendor. 

All in beauteous golden haze 

Of the far off, early days ; 

Memories which till death we cherish, 

Holier grown as round us perish. 



22 JVild Violets in a Public Square. 

One by one, the brows so calm 
Which made Hfe a tuneful psalm, 
And the aged footsteps falter ; 
While we sigh before God's altar, 
''Light eternal Jesus grant them," 
In thy paradise now plant them ! 



A Bed of y^ii^n Violets 

IN A PUBLIC SQUARE. 

Dear wildling violets, of the self-same hue 

As those I first in happy childhood knew. 

How like those nestling beauties ye beseem 

The vernal sunshine and the vernal green ; 

Though far from all the brookside's pleasant sounds. 

The cooling freshness of the meadow grounds, 

The only breeze that sweeps your lowly bed 

By all the city's dust and noises sped. 



IVild Violets in a Public Square. 

And with what peaceful singleness ot" heart 
I stand and gaze, from all the crowd apart, 
Upon your blue and meekly joyful eyes. 
As undisturbed, as tranquil as the skies ; 
Retaining still kind nature's simple grace, 
Unmindful of the joys or ills of place. 

O sweet refreshment which th' aspiring mind 
Can in your humble bloom and beauty find ; 
O sweet refreshment, that with blandest touch 
Soothes to repose the heart that asks too much ; 
The claiming wish subdued, its ache forgot 
While your mild presence charms this weary spot, 
Life's tuneful harmony at once restored. 
At nature's lowliest darling's gentle word. 

So fair the life, so calm the heayenly sense 
Of holy hearts, dear hearts of innocence. 
Within whose artless thoughts, like odorous bells, 
Such placid hopes, such mild contentment dwells ; 
Their joys, unsought, in steadfast peace abide, 
l^he rarest blooms of love untouched by pride. 



24 Song. 

Song of Welcome: 

My lonely days grew lonelier, 

The shadows spread apace, 
When on me, like a morning sun. 

Arose thy smiling face ; 
Sad tears, sad tears, my joyful cheeks 

Keep not of you a trace. 

The summer skies, which o'er me bend 

In beauty so benign. 
Are not so blue as the happy eyes 

Now beaming into mine ! 
Heart's love, heart's love, what sun could cheer. 

If thine should cease to shine ! 



Song. 

When evening deepens into night 

And all the world is still. 
Save that clear stream whose ceaseless flow 

Must turn the laboring mill ; 



Parting. 

When not a breeze disturbs the clear 

Reflex on memory's lake, 
O, well I prize that silent hour 

For thy so cherished sake. 

I do not miss one happy voice 

Its music or its glee, 
For O, when farthest from the world, 

My love, I'm nearest thee. 



r- 



RTING, 



We watched him through the evening glim, 
We watched him from the trellis low, 

And felt our hearts within us swim 
As swam the branches to and fro. 

We heard his footstep on the grass. 
His parting footstep, O how sad ' 

And wondered, as we heard it pass, 
If we could ever more be glad. 
2 



26 Parting. 

The figure mingled with the gHm, 
The footfall ceased upon the air ; 

We almost shuddered — without him 
It was so silent everywhere. 

Ye orchard shades, ye maples green, 
Ye elms majestic, softly sigh, 

For ye that friendly face have seen 
And heard that footstep passing by. 

Ye summer blooms, ye flowering vines, 
Exhale from all your fragrant leaves 

The sweetest dews which night resigns, 
And weep with Laura as she grieves— 

As grieves she o'er the vanished bliss. 
As grieves she o'er the vanished eye ; 

And let your wet leaves mutely kiss 
Where parted they so silently. 




Robifi Redbreast's Valentine. 27 

3pRING filRDS. . 

O ask no song of one whose heart 

Has not a hope of jov below, 
To whom the future's dread obscure 

Is heavy with impending woe. 

The wedded thrush beside its mate 
May sing of love, of hope, how dear, 

Nor sadden one delirious thrill 
With the remembrance of a tear. 



But grief is busy at my heart ; 

Life's Eden joys, how soon they wane 
Sing on, dear bird, and leave to me 

The secret tear, the silent pain. 



Robin Redbreast's Valentine. 

When little birds on fluttering wing 
Begin to chirp and then to sing. 
Each to his mate, with lusty throat, 
Love's first clear, delicious note. 



28 Robin Redbreast's Valentine. 

Then doth my joyous heart attune, 
To measure sweet, its simple rune ; 
Yet its first strains are ever thine. 
My well-beloved Valentine. 

When maple buds begin to blush. 
And over every tree and bush 
The earliest tints of spring appear. 
The tenderest of all the year. 
Within their most secluded bower. 
Undecked as yet by leaf or flower. 
But sacred still to thee and thine, 
I hopeful wait my Valentine. 

Yet wherefore is it mine to wait ? 
The smallest bird can boast a mate ; 
And even last year's nestlings young 
Have each a story and a tongue. 
Yet none, I ween, could ever prove 
More faithful unto wedded love. 
Than he whose first and only line 
Has chosen thee his Valentine. 



Wishes. 29 



f 



ISHES, 



O had I now a Carrier Dove 

To range on pinion free, 
How swiftly through the air would cleave 

Its faithful wings to thee ; 

And softer than the purple down 
That guards its gentle breast, 

The message that my heart would send 
To be thy evening guest. 

How quickly at thy window bright 

Its little bill would peck, 
Nor leave thee till thy hand had loosed 

The billet from its neck. 

And though I urged no fond request. 

Dear one, it could not be 
My pretty Post-bird would return 

Without a line for me. 



JO The Parlor Andirons. 

EssiE's Omen. 

I knew you would come ! — for what should I see 
To-night, as I gravely sat down to my tea, 
But a little tea-stick, with its head as straight up 
As your own curly pate, sailing round in my cup ? 
And who ever knew such an omen to fail. 
Though clouds in despite should rain, lighten, and hail ? 

Now pray, do not laugh ; and why think it unwise 
That such pleasant fancies find grace in my eyes ? 
For that is not trifling, whatever it be. 
Which brings me a word of glad tidings from thee, 
And that of all omens most happy and dear. 
Which tells me the friend so beloved is near. 



The Parlor Andirons. 

"I believe in the communion of saints." Credo. 

My father dozing in his favorite chair. 
The flickering firelight on his thin gray hair. 



The Parlor Andirons. 

The aged temples veined with tenderest hlue. 
So gently placid and so sweetly true — 
A picture only, yet it has for me 
Almost the charm of dear rcalitv- 

That quiet fireside-scene, the quaint arm-chair, 
The threaded locks of venerable hair. 
The folded hands, the andirons, polished, tall, 
The shadows thrown on that familiar wall. 
Bring back, with all the joy of living things. 
The dear old parlor's evening gatherings. 

How many an honored form and smiling face. 
Our romping games, our mother's quiet grace, 
Reflected have my eves, with wonder, seen 
Upon the stately andirons' polished sheen ! 
And memory, faithful to its early trust, 
A legion marshals from funereal dust. 

The sodded graves on many a hillside fair 
'Neath monumental marbles set with care. 
The sunny prairie's gavly flowering swell. 
The silent copse or melancholy dell, 
And thv dread deeps, O surging, wintry sea. 
Give up their dead to spend this hour with me 



32 spring Winds and Spring Flowers. 

Not lost, not severed ; only hid from view 
The ties which bind me, O my friends, to you ; 
The prayer I raise to aid your wished repose 
Flows back, through you, to soothe and bless my woes, 
While you whose lot is with the saints in peace 
From lurking dangers win me sweet release. 

Not lost, not severed ; — flow my happy tears ! 

Thrice happy loss which heaven itself endears ! 

O full exchange for earth's imperfect joy ! 

O fairest gold for earth's, at best, alloy ! 

A little sooner touching life's green shore. 

Your prayers speed my frail bark the breakers o'er. 



Spring Winds and Spring Flowers, 

Soft south airs, sweet airs so bland and tender, 
Quickening the cold earth where'er you pass. 

Waking by your greeting spring-buds slender. 
Kissing every strip of meadow grass ; 



spring IVinds and Spring Flowers. 33 

Well, O well, your light touch I rcnicnibcr, 

In the early, far-off vernal clays, 
When a child, transported, I would wander 

Over all the x'allcys' pleasant ways. 

With a tireless foot, a heart unsatcd, 

Eager eyes and shouts of wildest glee ; — 

All those joyous rambles unabated. 

Thou art bringing back this dav to me. 

Odorous May-flowers on the ground supine. 

Close where pines and hemlocks darkling dwell. 

Meadow cowslips brimming with sunshine, 
Spotted adder's-tongue with drooping bell ; 

Violets, and honey-suckles brown. 

Streaked anemonies so fair, so frail. 
Shy hepatica, with stems of down. 

Azure banks of the houstonia pale ; 

Tufts of cool wort with its fringed lid 

Near the sun-tipped moss's flowery ridge. 
Pink, and red, and white wake-robin hid 

In the haunted shadow of the bridge : 

2* 



34 Spring Winds and Spring Flowers. 

Restless as the bee from bank to brae 

Rambling with the south wind, dreamy, glad. 

Living over many a vernal day 

Till the very joy grew strangely sad ; 

Thus all day my wayward thoughts have wandered, 
Bringing back fresh spoils from wood and mead ; 

Simple treasures which have never pandered 
To the world's gross taste or selfish need. 

Faces which have mouldered, mouldered slowly 
'Neath the hillside turf these many years. 

Come back with you, O spring flowers so lowly. 
Filling my fond eyes with tender tears — 

Tender tears, not wholly sad ; untroubled 
By one harsh remembrance or regret ; 

Virtues, graces, death perchance has doubled ; 
Yet, like your frail blooms, their worth is set 

In a field of Paschal beauty, teeming 

With such hopes as make this mortal time 

Part of that grand choral song, redeeming 
Dust and ashes to a life sublime. 



A Reminiscence of Port Kent, 35 



A Reminiscence of Port Kent. 

O'er yon gray crag the still dawn breaks ; 

The light clouds flush, and morning smiles 
Across the wondrous-tinted lake, 

With all its hundred isles. 

Those grand old peaks, aerial kings," 
With mystic, sunlit glories crowned ; 

The vessels spreading noiseless wings ; 
On shore what peace profound ! 

Thus limned by memory's faithful touch, 
Champlain, thy summer beauties stand. 

Transcending skill of mortal art. 

And mocking Time's unkindly hand. 

And often on my darkened room 

Of sickness, with a mild surprise. 
Thy tinted lake, thy cloud-wreathed peaks, 

And cottage on the shore arise. 

* Mansfield and Camel's Hump. 



^6 Fade a. 



f 



ADED. 



They told me that her cheek had lost 

The richly mantling glow, 
Which told its own unconscious tale 

Of life's exulting flow. 

And well I knew they deemed her life, 

At its abounding May, 
Had felt some sky's unkindly blast. 

Some touch of still decay. 

But O they knew, they nothing knew 

Of all the nobler joys, 
Which fill the radiant circle up 

As fast as time destroys. 

And still I'll deem, though grace and bloom 

May silently depart, 
The glow but leaves the rose's cheek 

To deepen at the heart. 



'The Palmer s Rosary. 37 

The Palmer's Rosary. 

No coral beads on costlv chain of gold 
The Palmer's pious lips at vespers told: 
No guards of art could Pilgrim's favor win 
Who only craved release from earth and sin. 
He from the Holy Land his rosary brought ; 
From sacred olive wood each bead was wrought, 
Whose grain was nurtured, ages long ago. 
By blood the Saviour sweated in His woe ; 
Then on the Holy Sepulchre was laid 
This crown of roses from His passion made ; 
The Sepulchre from which the Lord of all 
Arose from death's dark bed and icv thrall. 

Yet not complete that wreath of joy and pain. 
Which for the dead must sweet indulgence gain ; 
The pendent cross, on which with guileless art 
Some hand had graved what touches every heart, 
The image of the Lamb for sinners slain. 
From Bethlehem's crib, now shrine, his pravers obtain ; 
And tears and kisses tell the holv talc 
Of pilgrim love and penitential wail. 



38 '^he Palmer s Rosary. 

The love, the tears which fed his pious flame, 

May well be thine, my heart, in very same; 

Since bead and cross, by Palmer prized so well, 

At vesper-hour these fingers softly tell. 

And press, through them, each dear and sacred spot 

Where God once walked, " yet men received him not.' 

And still with pious Palmer gray of yore. 

Thy lips can kiss the ground He wet with gore. 

Still at the Sepulchre with her delay 

Who found Him risen ere the break of day ; 

And hover round the crib with meek delight 

Where shepherds hasted from their flocks by night, 

To there adore Him whom a Virgin blessed. 

Bore in her arms and nourished at her breast. 

My Rosary dear ! my Bethlehem Cross so fair ! 
No rose, no lily can with thee compare ; 
No gems, no gold, no art or quaint device 
Could be my precious Rosary's priceless price ; 
For Heaven's eternal joys at holier speed, 
I trust to win through every sacred bead ; 
And still for suffering souls obtain release 
From cleansing fires to everlasting peace. 



My Oratory. 39 



yviY p 



RATORY, 



From a shaded nook of my roof-trcc room, 

Shines a light like that of a virgin moon, 

Nor day unto day does the joy decline 

Of the light from that hidden, humble shrine ; 

So lowly, so poor, that I almost seem 

On Bethlehem's crib to gaze in a dream. 

The naked old beams, and the rafters brown. 
To others may seem to darken and frown ; 
But the light so calm from that shaded nook 
(jilds rafter and beam and rude timber's crook, 
And the chamber's hush at the hour of noon 
Is pleasant as thickets of woods in June. 

A crucifix there of most humble make. 
Which I prize for blessed poverty's sake ; 
And a picture, pure, O purer than snow. 
Immaculate Mother of God below. 
And a gleam of beads the sweet secret tells 
Which the gloom of the rustic room dispels. 



40 Early Called^ 

There are griefs and woes for whose Uving wound 
No balsam of heahng with time is found : 
But the tender light from that humble shrine 
Heals every sorrow and hurt of mine ; 
And present, and past, and future to me 
Are safe in its merciful mystery. 



Early Called. 

Do you remember how he lay 

All through that glorious summer day. 

How beauteous even in lifeless clay ? 

Before the window at his head 

Late lilac blooms faint perfumes shed. 

Which floated in around his bed. 

The soft airs touched his forehead grand. 
Touched, too, the slender, boyish hand. 
Touched those young lips so pure and bland. 



Early Callea. 

CJpon his pillow you had laid 

Fresh garden-flowers ; the light wind strayed 

Among them as if half afraid ; 

For summer winds and fragrant air 
Stirred not one thread of slumbering hair; 
Death's dew had drenched those locks so fair. 

Without, the drowsy hum of noon, 
The robin's chirp, the pigeon's croon ; 
Within, the twilight's hush and gloom. 

O mortal love ! the dead alone. 

The dead vou with such tears bemoan, 

Can still be truly called your own. 

With them no change of first affection. 
Death saved their bloom of predilection. 
Brought virtues to a rare perfection. 

And now, as I recall that day 
When on his couch of death he lay, 
So beauteous even in lifeless clay. 



42 Forest Vespers. 

1 think — had our regretful tears 
Reclaimed him to these earthly spheres, 
What risks of sin had marred these years. 



Forest Vespers. 

In the twilight of a pensive mind, 
And the early hour of even, 

I watched the sunlight fade from earth. 
The stars come out in heaven. 

Around me creep the forest glooms, 

Around the misty meadow ; 
The very spots the sun most loved 

Lie now in deepest shadow. 

A sudden loneness strikes my heart ; 

The old, hushed grief returns. 
As ghosts of heroes grimly stalk 

From slowly-crumbling urns. 



Forest Vespers, 4j 

The phantoms of my carlv joys, 

A legion, round me rise ; 
A smile breaks through the dusk of years, 

A look from buried eyes. 

I strike mv breast in agony ; 

I bend a suppliant knee ; 
My God ! my God ! () let me fly 

And be at rest with Thee ! 

The sense of night is on my heart, 

The hush, the gloom, the chill ; 
The forest shadows touch my soul 

With their fingers wan and still. 

Blessed stars, that on your tranquil thrones 

In vestal beauty burn. 
To you, dear friends of youthful hours. 

My eyes now pleading turn. 

Draw me to your empyrean heights. 

Fair vesper lamps of even. 
To learn, for one quenched light of earth. 

Ten thousand wait in heayen. 



44 'T^he Evening Primrose. 

yHE Evening Primrose. 

When first the twilight dews descend, 
And dusky glooms the landscape blend, 
And the grand shadows of the wood. 
Which makes our sylvan solitude. 
Creep o'er the garden's flowery slope. 
Where blushing buds at dawning ope ; 
Along its gayly-bordered walk, 
A brown, unsightly, common stalk 
Bursts into beauty, which might seem 
The rapture of an infant's dream ; 
The dry, coarse branches swift unfold 
To lovely chalices of gold. 
With perfumes like that spikenard sweet, 
Poured o'er the dear Redeemer's feet, 
And, like that precious spikenard, praise 
The Lord, who knows no length of days. 

Sweet vesper flower ! thy odors teach 
Our hearts, which words might never reach. 
The graces of this silent hour. 
Which on the waiting spirit pour ; 



'The Fringed Gentian. 45 

The hush of praise, the peace of prayer, 
The sigh for God, the rest from care ; 
Devotion's twilight perfumes shy, 
Which shun the noonday's torrid eye, 
But hide amid the mists of even. 
To be exhaled at morn to Heaven. 



The Fringed Gentian. 

October's loveliest flower, so wondrous blue. 
Whose eyelids, softly fringed, still hold the dew 

Of frosty autumn nights, 

Yet smiles anew 

When morn the hill-top lights ! 

Thou mindest me by thy celestial dye 
Of our most Virgin Ladv's heavenly eye ; 

So meekly hid 

Beneath its fringed lid ; 

With pity wet 

For man, with ills beset. 



4-6 T^he Woodland Grave. 

For love of her I lay thee on her shrine ; 
Make my sweet duty to her, flowret mine, 

And beg that eye, for Jesus's sake, to turn 

On all who sigh and mourn 

In frosty vales, and drear : 

O Lady dear, accept and hear ! 

The Woodland Grave. 

A mound of moss, with tiny, mossy blooms 

Of red and yellow, streaked and speckled o'er. 

And set about with tufts of slender fern. 

And maiden-hair, on waving, ebon stalk; 

A gleam of beauty 'mid the solemn woods. 

Its deeps of summer verdure, rank on rank. 

And crumbling trunks of still more ancient growth ; 

A bed, perchance, by faithful nature made 

For some dear favorite perished from her arms, 

The cherished treasure of this woodland grave. 

So lovely death comes to the innocent, 

Till we almost forget, it is the price 

Of our lost Eden and its sinless joys. 



A Sunset at Spring Park. 17 



From Y 



It was an unaimed shaft 

Which touched my heart ; 
Another might have hiughed 

Away the smart ; — 

But O ! it flew 

To me from you ! 

From any other quiver, 

I said, with tears ; 
Then kissed it with a shiver 

Of tender fears. 

For O ! it flew 

To me from you. 



/ ^" 



NSET AT ^PRING ^ARK 



All day the clouds had been drifting, 
Drifting with wind and with rain ; 

All day my heart had been aching. 
Aching with sorrowful pain. 



48 A Sunset at Spring Park. 

All day my brain had been thinking, 
All day my fingers had wrought, 

Spite the wild whirl of the tempest. 
Shaping the deed from the thought. 

What with the anguish of spirit. 
What with the rain and the toil. 

That was a day whose veiled merit 
My angel could claim as his spoil. 

Yet sweetness of God's consolation ! 
Of Love ne'er forgetting its own ! 
Far over that dark day of autumn 
A sunset of beauty was thrown. 

A gleam like the smile of a martyr 

Whose palm-branch and halo are won. 

Flooded forest, and meadow, and homestead, 
Till tempest and trouble were gone. 

O life's day of grief and temptation ! 

O struggle of right with the wrong ! 
The battle is wearily waging, 

And only God's angels are strong. 



In the timber, zj.q 

Yet far on the western horizon. 



True soul, battle-scarred, but well shriven, 
O'er all the barbed pangs of the death-bed 
Will gleam the first glories of heaven ! 



■yr-TSSr 



In the Timber 



The woods so strangelv solemn and majestic. 
The awful noontide twilight 'ncath (2;rand trees, 

The hush like that of holy haunts monastic. 
While mighty branches, lifting with the breeze, 

Give glimpses of high heaven's cerulean sheen 

The autumn-tinted leaves and boughs between — 

Thus stands the picture. From the homestead door. 
Close in the timber's edge, I strayed one day 

To yonder knoll, where — as to some calm shore 
A mortal bark once drifted in decay — 

A great man lies in pulseless, dreamless sleep. 

Where those two oaks untiring sentry keep. 

3 



50 In the 'Timber. 

A few fresh flowers with reverent hand I placed 
Upon the grave — he loved fair nature's lore — 

And with a quickened memory retraced 
Our dear old village history once more, 

Made up of all the close familiar ties 

Of common country, lot, and families. 

Then, from the knoll, a greensward path I took 
Between the sunny cornfields and the wood. 

With southern aspect and a fair off-look ; 
Till suddenly, with pulses hushed, I stood 

Beneath this fretted vault, where branches high 

Wove their bright tufts of crimson with blue sky. 

The sombrous twilight with a breathless awe 
Fell on my heart ; the last year's rotting leaves 

Strewed thickly the soft turf, on which I saw 

Shy stalks of dark-stemmed maiden-hsir in threes ; 

While round me rose huge oaks, whose giant forms 

Had wrestled with a century's winds and storms. 

For life was there, strong life and struggle ; scars 
Seamed the firm bark closed over many a wound 

Born 'neath the tranquil eye of heaven's far stars ; 
For in their woe the oaks stood, never swooned • — 



The Rest in Hope. 51 

The great trunks writhed and twisted, groanetl, then 

rose 
To nobler height and loftier repose. 

Faint heart, weak faith ! How oft in weary pain, 
In hfelong strife with hell's deceitful power, 

I turn me to the brave old woods again. 
Whose leafy coronals exultant tower. 

And all their gold and crimson banners tost 

On the wild wind like some victorious host. 



The Rest in Hope. 

R. I. p. 

In the deep night, before the dawn began. 
When sleep lies heaviest on the eyes of man. 
To a hushed chamber, where the only light 
Shone from the blessed candle, calm and bright, 
God's own death-angel came with kiss of peace, 
And gave the struggling spirit sweet release. 



52 In H/ inter. 

We left our darling to the cold, 
We left her to the worm and mould ; 
To winter snow, to summer rain, 
Yet, like the seed of blessed grain. 
Our darling shall arise again. 

Arise — not as in weakness sown, 
But unto fair perfection grown ; 
A body of celestial grace. 
And lineage of that ransomed race. 
Beholding Godhead, face to face. 



Tn Winter^ 



How lonely on the hillside look the graves ! 
The summer green no longer o'er them waves ; 
No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard 
The mournful whippoorwill or singing bird. 



In Winter, 53 

The rosebush, phmtcd with such tearful care, 
Stands in the winter sunshine stiff and bare; 
Save here and there its ling-erins; berries red 
Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead. 



Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry grass. 
The fitful breezes with a shiver pass. 
While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds 
The snow-birds flit and peck the shelling seeds. 



Because those graves look lonely, bleak, and bare, 
Because thev are not, as in summer, fair, 
O, turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home, 
And mid their solemn desolation roam ! 

On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay ; 
O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stav. 
To breathe a "Rest in Peace," for those who lie 
On lonelv hillsides 'neath a winter sky. 



54 



Cold. 



Cold. 

Sad heart, thou art a-cold 
With pressing to the mould 

Of that dead heart, 
Within whose dear retreat 
Thine own warm, hving beat 

First took its start. 

The sunny vernal day 
Charms not that cold away ; 

Its frozen pain 
Melts not with mountain snow, 
Nor iceberg drifting slow 

'Neath April rain. 

It was no wintry blast 

O'er thee chill fetters cast ; — 

A cold, still breath 
Came o'er that icy main. 
Once sailed none sail again, 

Which men call Death. 



Stitches. 55 

Fresh gales of hope divine 
From heavenly shores benign, 

Celestial airs ! 
Blow o'er this new-made bed 
Where my heart's heart lies dead, 

Embalmed in prayers. 

Breathe o'er this mournful sod ; 
And when, wild flowers, you nod 

'Neath sun and dew 
Among its springing grass, 
Mv hope shall death surpass, 

And bloom with you. 



^ 



TITCHES. 



I watched the aged fingers ply. 
With patient, faithful care. 

The needle's polished shaft, her eye 
Fast fading, but still fair ; 



56 'The spring. 

A smile passed o'er her features strangely sweet, 
" It may be, dear, this is my winding-sheet !" 
How many a thought into that seam was stitched, 
Which more than threads of gold the web enriched ! 

Scarce three days passed ; the aged head 

Lay still upon its well-blessed bed ; 

A smile dwelt on those features, heavenly sweet, 

For she had claimed her winding-sheet. 

Young fingers, tender, rosy, round, 

By many a jeweled circlet bound. 

The needle's gleaming shaft you ply 

'Neath laughing lip and sparkling eye ; 

O, who could dream those rosy fingers fleet 

Were gayly stitching their own winding-sheet ! 



Jhe ^ 



PRING. 



Through the twisted roots of stalwart oaks 
Chipped by the woodpecker's tiny strokes. 
Through the crevices of limestone ledges 
Mossed o'er and dripping at the edges, 



The Spring. 57 

Deep in cool shadows from morn to night, 
Its brim with pale jewel-weed bedight, 
Gushes the spring, with a noiseless flow, 
Like a pulse, mysterious, strong, and slow. 

To that noiseless spring below the hill. 
Winter and summer, we go to fill 
Pitcher and pail ; and over the brink 
Dips Dolly's pitcher, for "dolls must drink :" 
The cocoanut cup stands on the edge 
Of the mossy, dripping, limestone ledge. 
And the thirsty traveller loves the cool 
Plash of the cup in that living pool. 

Out of the shadow into the sun 
The waters with rippling gladness run ; 
And where they break into full sunshine 
Come neighing horses and meek-eyed kine. 
With gamboling younglings at their side, 
To quaff at the brook ; their nostrils wide 
Laid close to the clear, refreshing stream, 
Where flashing sunbeams twinkle and gleam. 

Out of the shadow, through sunny mead. 
Where the mother-ducks their young broods lead 
8* 



58 . The Spring. 

To float all day on the tranquil tide, 

Past the willow copse to wheel and glide ; 

The wild drake comes with his mate to stray 

All summer along its margin gay, 

And their screams, and quackle of delight, 

Are heard till the brook winds out of sight. 

Such is the household spring of to-day ; 

And far, far back, I have heard men say. 

The lordly chiefs of another race 

Loved the doe and antlered buck to chase 

O'er these wooded knolls ; and from the spring 

The hands of the children often bring 

An arrow-head, long, shapely, and fair, 

To ask its story, then keep with care. 

Man's generations have come and gone. 
And the noiseless spring still gushes on ; 
The path to that spring below the hill 
By merry prattlers is threaded still ; 
And, with the shadows that o'er it play, 
A shadow, more shadowy still than they. 
Walks toward the spring at a thoughtful pace, 
A pensive smile on the aged face. 



Six Stone Steps. . 59 

Often that shadow flits in between 

My eyes, and the landscape's summer sheen ; 

The shoulders bent, and the cap, snow white. 

Flecked with the pathway's shadow and light ; 

Yet something more than the mortal grace 

Now hovers over the tender face. 

And the eyes are turned, with an infinite peace, 

To that place where all labors and sorrows cease. 



^ix Stone Steps. 



/ 



The October sun is lighting up 

The sunnv limestone wall, 
The five-leaved ivy's crimson leaves 

Have not begun to fall. 
Blackberries on a carmine stem 

Are ripening over all — 
And I ? I gaze through blinded eyes, 

On six steps in the wall. 



6o Six Stone Steps. 

Six rough stone steps, which bear to me 

The record of a life ; 
God knows, O how I longed to smooth 

Such steps for thee, sweet wife ; 
But He had hedged us close within 

A lot with labor rife ; 
Ofttimes it seemed like wasted bloom. 

Thou and thy toilsome life. 

The noonday sunshine, calm and warm, 

Is pausing on the stair, — 
My heart with all its memories 

Is also pausing there. 
Recalling one whose weary tread 

Came less from years than care ; 
But a world of patient love was in 

That slow step on the stair. 

Time was my heart swelled up against 

The crosses of our state ; 
For us, too early fortune's smile, 

Or, misery ! too late ; 



Six Stone Steps. 6i 

Till when I saw thy taint, wan smile 

I cursed what seemed a fate ; 
But, O ! I learned by that pale gleam 

To read aright our state. 

To thee, the landscape never lost 

Its beauty or delight. 
The peaceful wild flower raised its eye 

To one as tranquil, quite ; 
The Eden glory lingering still 

On all that met thy sight ; 
I see thee now upon the stair 

Tranced in a calm delight. 

Rough steps I could not smooth for thee 

Were smoothed by thy sweet will, 
Which sucked the honey-drop of good 

From every draught of ill. 
Th' ideal grace was born with thee, 

But, O ! a holier still 
Caught the odor of high sanctity 

From thy transfigured will. 



Gi "The Evening Rain. 

November's sun will blink upon 

A cheerless, cold stone wall, 
The five-leaved ivy's crimson leaves 

Will soon begin to fall, 
And lonely birds will come to peck 

The clinging berries small : 
Sweet wife, thy dead heart speaks to mine 

P'rom six steps in the wall. 



The Evening Rain. 

I hear the soft low rain 
Falling on the window pane. 
Feel it too upon my brain — 
Hardly pleasure, hardly pain. 
Yet I feel it on my brain 
As upon the window pane 
Falls the dreamy evening rain. 

Softly through these quiet hours 
On the scarcely budded flowers. 
On the newly glinting green 
Through the fragrant woodlands seen. 



"The Evening Rain. Gi^ 

On the Havvley pastures brown 
Come the still showers kindly down, 
And the prairie's fertile swell 
Blossoms like a fairy dcll ; 
While the graves whose sods I cherish, 
Bloom with hopes that cannot perish. 
Under this mild April rain 
Falling on my window pane, 
Which I feel upon my brain. 

Hardly pleasure, hardly pain 
Is this sense upon my brain. 
Yet the tears gush to my eyes 
With the rain from vernal skies : 
Something in my memory stirred 
Which has never lived in word. 
Which in thought is scarce defined. 
Yet an image on the mind ; 
Something sweeter than a pleasure 
Which with tender tears I treasure. 
And comes back upon my brain. 
With the vernal evening rain 
Falling on my window pane. 



64 Pruning. 



Pruning, 



It is well, although the heart is aching; 

It is well, although the heart is sore ; 
For there must be grieving and heart-breaking, 

As there must be scandals, evermore. 

It is but another stroke of sorrow ; 

It is but another twinge of pain ; 
Presently will dawn that other morrow, 

And this mortal loss prove heavenly gain. 

Thus I bandaged up her great disaster; 

I could weep to see her suffering so. 
But I said, more gentle is the Master, 

Who has sent this child her bitter woe. 

Wherefore should I bind with bootless pity 
That deep wound which needs a saving balm ? 

Keep thy tears for some unreal ditty ; 

To this soul, on which waits crown and palm, 



A Request. 65 

Bring the chrism of a high anointing, 

Or those holy oils, of grace benign, 
Which are brought, by hands of God's appointing. 

To the dying, as salvation's sign. 

There is kindness in this early anguish ; 

There is blessing in this overthrow ; 
Head may droop and those dear smiles may languish. 

But there is a strength within, I know, 

Waiting only for this time of pruning ; 

We shall see choice clusters on this vine — 
Hark ! do you not hear o'er heaven's rapt tuning, 

" i\line I know, and I am known of mine." 



jK Request. 



No other symbol ask I at my grave, 
Than that rude cross of Him who came to save 
My helpless soul, all tainted through with sin 
Till He alone could make and keep it clean. 



66 A Request. 

Beneath the shadow of that symbol dear, 
I'll rest, secure from all that mortals fear, 
Whether among my green ancestral trees. 
Or on the dreary shore of frozen seas. 

No need of friendly hands my turf to weed 

Or plant the faithful myrtle's tender seed ; 

Eyes that must weep for me themselves must close 

And find in death their long-desired repose, 

Till none, of all I love, on earth will dwell 

To guard my senseless dust's low citadel. 

The tramp of ages o'er my grave may sound. 

The earthquake shake what seems the solid ground. 

And sacrilegious hands perchance may dare 

To cast my dust, like ashes, on the air \ 

Yet He whose will creative doth preside 

O'er laws which man would number in his pride. 

Still to the hollow of His hand will draw 

What men despise by his serenest law. 

Nor one least grain will He forget to win 

From the dominion of the curse of sin. 



One Hour After Death. 67 



One Hour After Death. 

' I could envy thee thy solemn sleep, 
Thy scaled lid, thy rosary-folding palm, 

Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep 
The " Bona Mors" sublime, unfathomcd calm. 

1 sigh to wear m)sclf that burial robe 

Anointed hands have blessed with pious care : 
What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe 

Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare ? 

Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust 
Shall rest securely through the night of time. 

Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust ; 
But fresh, as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime 

Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray 

Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam ; 

I see it break ! the pure, celestial day. 
And stars of mortal hope already dim. 



68 A Leaf. 

" In pace," Lord, O ! let her sweetly rest 
In Paradise, this very day with thee ; 

Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed, 
Then let her soul thy risen glory see ! 



/ y 



EAF. 



Within a small, choice book of pious lore, 
A single, crumbling leaflet guarded lies ; 
Long years have robbed it of its spicy scent, 
Its vernal dyes. 

Pale, dying fingers, out of love for me. 

Its fragrant stem broke from the parent stalk ; 
Mid sadly flickering smiles, and, well we knew, 
Our last, last earthly talk. 

No word, no sigh of parting ; one wan smile, 

A cheery word with trembling fondness spoken, 
And our full past was garnered, griefs and joys, 
All in this token. 



Song. 69 

So frail, so worthless ; yet the leaf outlives 

The hand that plucked, the eye that beamed its 
meaning ; 
The faithful, fervent heart, the noble brain, 
With wisdom teeming. 

The worm has claimed that which the soul made 
precious ; 
The leaf survives the touch that made its worth: 
Behold, O heart, what rest for thee rcmaineth 
With* things of earth ! 



SoN' 



I knew she was loved by another, I knew. 

Yes — I knew it was hopeless, vet still I loved on^ 

As if but to let that illusion depart 

Was to blot out all loveliness under the sun." 



70 A May Breeze. 

How could I the dream of my boyhood resign, 

O how break the fair spell which my soul had en- 
tranced ! 

The first burst of sunshine on life's early way 

Which had all other joys by its gladness enhanced ! 

Transfigured, the dream of my boyhood now dwells, 
As remote as yon star, as a vestal serene ; 

Untouched in its beauty, unsullied by aught 
Of a world whose celestial is lost in terrene. 



A May Breeze 



As fragrant blooms by blushing orchard shed. 
When spring's advancing season ripens fast, 

O such the blossoms which the heart has fed 
With all the dewy sweetness of the past. 

But like those winds whose stormy passage sweeps 
The wailing trees, but leaves fair fruit behind. 

Life's changing scenes, which man still hourly weeps, 
Pledge fruit, than blooms, more constant and more 
kind. 



Peace. 7 1 

Peace. 

*' Not as the world giveth do I give to you." St. John xi^, 27. 

Break not its sleep, the faithful grief, still tender ; 

God gives at length His own beloved rest ; 
How worn the suffering brow ! yet those meek fingers 

Still press the cross of patience to her breast. 

Stir not the air with one sweet, lingering cadence 
From life's fair prime of love and hope and song ; 

Serener airs, from martyr hosts celestial, 

To that high trance of conquered peace belong. 

Hush mortal joy or wail, hush mortal pneans ; 

Ye cannot reach that Thabor height sublime 
Where God's eternal joy, in tranquil \ision. 

Seems nearer than the sights and sounds of time. 



72 T^he 'Two Cities. 

The Two Cities. 

A lonely mortal, wasted, faint, yet staid, 
Paused in the deep Cathedral-portal's shade ; 
The footworn threshold-stone his lips salute, 
A moment pause in adoration mute. 
Then with uplifted eye and forehead bare 
Those fasting lips his purpose grand declare : — 

Upon those lowly ways thy saints have trod, 
My weary feet would enter, O my God ! 
Flinty, perchance, those ways, and hard to find 
To feet unused like mine how steep to climb 
Yet safe while kept, they all my heart ensnare 
Of Jesu's pilgrims meek the sacred garb to wear. 

Behind me lies the city of my life. 

Its once dear joys, their rapture and their strife ; 

Hope's smiling temple and triumphal arch. 

Ambition's sculptured wreaths ; the festive march 

Still sounding in my ear, and dearer still 

Young love's Arcadian pipes with tender memories fill. 

Weep, O my heart, yet break not nor despair. 
Though vanquished lies that city once so fair! 






1.fie Two Cities. 

Death sacked its temples — colonnades of joy ; . 
Its playful fountains did his hand destroy, 
And round me laid its crested towers of pride, 
In mournful, hopeless ruins, crumbling side by side. 

Forth from their beauty's melancholy waste 

Meekly my feet essay, my God, to haste ; 

The ashes of my pleasant places, lo ! 

I scatter on my head as forth I go. 

Like penitential dust, and tear and sigh 

Arc offered at the shrine of Majesty on high. 

My pilgrim staff, my scallop shell, are all 

I covet of world's wealth ; and poor and small 

The crucifix I place upon my breast. 

My all of solace and my all of rest ; 

My book, my guide, my wisdom here are stored, 

T^hou suffering image of th' Incarnate Word ! 

Afar, quite melting in my western sky. 
And mingling with its ever gorgeous dye. 
The walls celestial of a city fair 
I can discern, most beauteous and most rare ; 
Towards that my pilgrim footsteps quickening turn. 
For those eternal gates, alone, 1 sigh and burn ! 

\ 



13 



74 '^he Returned Regiment. 



"The Returned jR^egiment. 

A shrill fife and a drum's wild beat, 
And the throngs on the busy street 

Give way ; 
For with banners blood-stained and rent, 
And its strong men with shoulders bent, 
Returns a brave regiment 

To-day. 

Stalwart men who would laugh at fear. 
Lovely women with children dear. 

Matron and sire — 
Tender maidens in beauty coy. 
Ardent youths with their pulse of joy 

And souls of fire — 

Pause with a lingering gaze 

In the midst of the crowded ways : 

And moistening eyes 
Watch the worn, battle-thinned line. 
Stepping true to the martial time. 
Till the beat of heroic rhyme 

In distance dies. 



The Returned Regiment. 75 

The waves of that human sea 
Of life and of destiny 

Roll on once more ; 
Yet, over the city's roar, 
The fife and the drum's wild strain, 
Like some battle-song's refrain. 
Catch my still listening ear ; 
Start anew the lingering tear ; 
And I know, I know full well. 
By my own heart's aching swell. 
How the pulses, gentle and rude. 
Of that pausing multitude 
With a nameless feeling beat, 
A sympathy noble and sweet. 
To the rhythm of patriot feet : — 
How the battle's terrible joy 
Surged up in the heart of the boy ; 
While the man who knew not fear 
Was not ashamed of a tear, 
As the story of marches sore, 
Of rivers on rivers of gore 
Mid the musketry's sulphurous breath. 

And still, stark death. 



76 Col. James A, Mulligan. 

Was told by an awful sign 
In the worn and battle-thinned line, 
And the strong men with shoulders bent, 
Of the brave returned regiment. 



Col. James A. Mulligan. 

INSCRIBED TO THE " IRISH BRIGADE." 

O comrades dear. 
Well may a tear 
Drop on this bier : 
More gentle dust 
Earth never took in trust, 
And ne'er resigned 
A mortal mind 
Of temper more heroic or more kind. 

Malice could harm not, envy could not stir. 
Nor mammon tempt this soul to worship her ; 
Brief honors paled before his generous heart. 
For such choice souls earth has no price, no mart. 



Col. James A. Mulligan. 77 

O brave true heart, O pulses strong and good, 
Which throbbed as Christian patriot's only could ; 
O calm, wise will, O swift impetuous thought, 
O valorous joy which deeds for history wrought ; 

O noble presence, with a chieftain's grace 
Lighting the tall, grand form, the poet's face ; 
O sweet, clear voice, which through hoarse battles rang 
With all a trumpet's gladness, not its clang ! 

Weep strong men must. 
Since all before us now is lifeless dust ; 

Majestic clay 
Is all, good friends, death leaves to us to-dav ; 

And well the tear 
Beseems this Christian dust, this patriot bier. 

Strip the sad altars \ Priest in sable stole. 
Breathe your best benison upon his soul : 
Dread " Dies Irae," sound the depths forlorn 
Of death and judgment ; and then Hope, Christ-born, 
Tune thy serenest voice to chant at morn 
" Requiescat in pace !" 



7 8 Marian. 



JA 



ARIAN, 



Now the great Rebellion's over 

And this cruel war is done, 
All the troops are gayly marching 

To the tune of " Home, sweet Home ;' 
O my God, my God, forgive me ! 

Mary, aid me by thy prayer ! 
P'or the anguish of my spirit 

Seems too great for me to bear. 

All the valleys teem with echoed 

Meetings, greetings, heart's delight, 
Like the sound of pleasant fountains 

In the fragrant summer night ; 
Till I cower before my sorrow. 

Cease to wrestle with my grief. 
Only crying, " God forgive me ! 

Mary, Mother, bring relief!" 

Could his fame my heart-break solace, 
Well I know the valorous story. 

All the deeds of generous daring 

Which have steeped his name in glory ; 



Marian. 



79 



And our darlings, O my hero ! 

Shall those deeds with pride repeat, 
Yet I cry — may God forgive me — 

" Life seemed long and love was sweet !" 

While the battle's din was raging, 

And the conflict wild and hot, 
I could almost say, '' for country 

Be my own heart's woe forgot ;" 
But the great Rebellion's over. 

And this cruel war quite done. 
And the soldiers gavly marching 

To the tune of " Home, sweet Home ;" 
Now I cower before my anguish, 

All this life-time left to me. 
Only crying, " God forgiving. 

Holy Mother, comfort me !" 




8o With "thee. 



With Thee, 



How shall I follow thee, my heart's beloved, 

Dear soul, the twin of mine ; 
How cross these dismal wastes of separation 

And round thy pathway shine ? 

How lift to thy sad lips the cup of comfort. 

How be thy oil, thy wine. 
How meet thy swift temptation at the threshold 

With shield of faith divine ? 

O, how shall I secure my place beside thee. 

When o'er thy filming eye 
Creep those dread mists which tell affrighted nature 

The time has come to die ? 

Talk not of written word or lightning message ; 

Too slow for love's behest ; 
Upon that wasted moment may be pending 

Life, Heaven, all graces best. 



IFith Thee. 8i 

Not occult science, aught of man's invention, 

Can keep thy hand in mine : 
My prayer must track thee through the weary distance. 

And sign thee with its sign. 

Although wild snow-drifts block the mountain passes. 

Though storms lash ocean's brine. 
My still persistent prayer shall win an answer 

For each sore need of thine. 

My hand upon my mouth, my mouth in ashes, 

Thus prostrate, Lord, I pray ; 
Myself of dust an atom ; Thou, Creator, 

Whence all benignly ray ! 

The children's suppliant call is ne'er unheeded ; 

Omnipotence doth lend 
Itself, through saint, through angel, fire and water. 

To be the creature's friend. 

My cry shall conquer distance, all sad forces 

Which fallen nature boasts ; 
For Heaven will send to thee, in sweet attendance, 

Its beatific hosts. 

4* 



82 A Word, 

O'er treacherous death itself, all foresight mocking, 

Shall thus prevail my prayer, 
For Jesus, Mary, Joseph will be with thee 

However, when and where ! 



/y 



ORD, 



"Aura !" gayly whispered in my ear 
As the merry dancers floated near. 
Like a sudden ray of sunshine clear 
Told how to his soul I was most dear. 

Light, and music, and companions gay. 
In my joy like snow-wreaths passed away ; 
Vernal gladness on my spirit lay 
Like still valleys lapped in blooming May. 

"Aura !" all our happy love was told 
In that word ; volumes could not hold 
Though illumined all in gems and gold ; 
Music never could its sense unfold. 



A Word. 83 

Many weary years have come and gone, 
I have counted them, each, one by one. 
Since they laid him under that cold stone. 
Under the sweet June turf, all alone. 

But that word thus whispered from his heart 
Into mine, can never thence depart ; 
Often, even now, I turn and start. 
The old sunshine flooding world and heart. 

It may be — God knows I , ne'er repine — 
On that shore not fanned by aught of time. 
And which God himself makes all sublime, 
It may be that true heart waiteth mine: 

Waiteth, with a high angelic sense. 
Rapture of celestial innocence 
Of th' eternal joy an effluence ; 
Purged in the eye of God's omnipotence. 

Thus, without a sigh of courage faint. 
Ceased what was a memory more than plaint ; 
Mortal love outgrown its mortal taint. 
All the woman verging to the saint. 



In Retreat. 



]^ji 



ETREAT. 



Dear shades of St. Mary's ! how calm is the beat 
Of the heart's warmest pulse in thy hallowed retreat ; 
How softly the flow of thy penitent's tears 
Washes off the sad trace of less fortunate years. 

Before thy still shrine, a worn pilgrim, I kneel, 
Awaiting the touch which has promised to heal : 
How kind, on the heart which has suffered, descends 
The benison mild of the mildest of friends ! 

Dear shades of St. Mary's ! again I must take 
A pilgrim's rough staff, loved for poverty's sake ; 
Yet brightly the lamp of Loretto will shine 
O'er every dark pathway and trouble of mine. 

O clear be the sunshine, and kindly the showers, 
And tranquil the moonlight o'er all thy fair bowers; 
And sweet, as thy own vesper cadence, the flow 
Of St. Joseph, thy steep wooded bankments below. 



Lucifer Matutinus. 85 

O still may thy hare-bells in loveliness dwell 
Along thy shy paths, overhanging each dell ; 
And never may time, with its pitiless damp, 
Quench the vestal-fed flame of Loretto's dear lamp ! 



Lucifer Matutinus. 

From a heart of infinite longing the youth 

Looks out on the world ; 
" Where, spirit of candor, where, spirit of truth, 

Are thy banners unfurled ? 

" O chivalrous chastity, lovely as morn. 
The dew on thy helmet, I hail thee afar ; 

Like Lucifer, beautiful angel of dawn, 
I wear thy deep azure, 1 follow thy star. 

" Not mammon, not lucre ; though white as sea-gulls 
The broad sails I watch studding ocean's blue deep. 

To droop their gay pennons where dreamily lulls 
The tropical breeze, and the Lotus-flower sleeps. 



86 Lucifer Matuttnus. 

"But glory ! but honor ! the joy of a name 
Not written on sand ; which for ao;es will stir 

All hearts that are noble, or kindle the flame 
Of devotion consuming the rapt worshipper." 

Thus from heart of infinite longing, the youth, 

Looking out on the world. 
Cries ever, " Woo wisdom, woo beauty, woo truth ;" 
The sordid world, jaded with care, answers, " Ruth 
Waits on thy wild dreamings, O turbulent youth ;" 

And with laughter uncouth 
Mocks life's fairest banners in brightness unfurled. 

O heart of the ostrich ! above its own graves 
Of innocent hopes the world every day raves, 
And moans, with a pitiful droon of despair. 
O'er candor and honor, once blooming so fair ; 
Yet treads with a wanton, unpitying scorn, 
To earth every sweet aspiration of morn, 
True mark of a soul to infinity born ; 
Or leaves, to the chance of the desert, the good 
Which God, at creating, charged angels to brood. 
And martyrs have guarded with rivers of blood. 



The Death of St. Joseph. 87 

The Death of St. Joseph. 

" Let me die the death of the just, and may my last end be like his " 

A simple print from hand of high renown 
Upon my low bed's head looks kindlv down ; 
— The patriarch Joseph, foster-father mild 
Of Nazareth's Virgin Mother's heavenly Child, 
His dying head pressed close against the knee 
Of the Incarnate Son and Deity; — 
The Virgin Mother kneeling gently near 
Dissolved in prayer, on that mild cheek a tear ; 
Thus has the Christian Master's pious mind, 
Great Overbeck, the "Just man's" death designed. 

The Picture, breathing all the holy peace 
Of souls which find in death, from death, release. 
Thus placed, a wish long cherished found expression — 
When I shall come to my death-bed confession ; 
When fiiithful priest shall that last unction give 
Which bids these lapsing, dying senses live 
On God's own day of happy resurrection. 
As long tried vessels of most sweet election ; 



88 I'he Death of St. Joseph. 

When on my parched, enfeebled tongue shall lie 

Jesus, himself, in loving mystery ; 

Then may three friends, in fair, celestial state, 

Unseen, around my bed benignly wait : 

Thus shall I win, while yielding up my breath, 

Life's last and crowning grace, a happy death. 

O Jesus, Mary, Joseph ! thus I sigh 

Each night as 'neath that picture's wing I lie ; 

O Jesus, Mary, Joseph ! me befriend 

When this so troubled life shall near its end ; 

O Jesus, Mary, Joseph ! with you near 

Death's dreaded spectres all will disappear ; 

And though no friend be near with pious care 

To wipe the death-sweat, lift the last sweet prayer, 

Contentedly, serenely, I can die 

In your most dear and holy company. 




Our Neighbor. 



pUR 1^ 



EIGHBOR, 



Set it down gently at the altar rail 

The faithful, aged dust with honors meet ; 

Long have we seen that pious face, so pale. 
Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet. 

These many years her heart was hidden, where 

Nor moth, nor rust, nor craft of man could harm ; 

The blue eyes, seldom lifted, save in prayer, 

Beamed with her wished-for heaven's celestial ca^m. 

As innocent as childhood's was the face. 

Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart •, 

Each trouble came as winged by special grace, 
And resignation saved the wound from smart. 

On bead and crucifix her fingers kept. 

Until the last, their fond accustomed hold ; 

" My Jesus," breathed the lips ; the raised eves slept, 
The placid brow, the gentle hand grew cold. 



90 



// is the World. 



The choicely ripening cluster, lingering late 
Into October on Its shrivelled vine, 

Wins mellow juices, which In patience wait 
Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine. 

Then set It gently at the altar rail. 

The faithful, aged dust with honors meet ; 

How can we hope If such as she can fall 

Before the Eternal God's high judgment-seat ! 



T IS THE WORLD 



»' 



'' It Is the world," the good religious said. 

Then sighed a pitying sigh, and shook her head ; 

" It Is the world :" so, for a double sin. 

Not one reproach did those chaste lips begin. 

She who with vigils long and fastings strait 

Sought to pass safely through the heavenly gate, 

For that young creature's guilt, her wrong and shame, 

Had only words of sorrow — none of blame. 



Occult ation of Venus. 91 

O, selfish worldlings, who the bird decoy 

With such sweet flatteries only to destroy ; 

O, selfish worldlings, who the misery see 

To pass in censure or in mockery ; 

O, selfish worldlings, who, like whited tombs. 

Are filled at heart with passion's festering bones. 

Shrink like the murderer from the dead man's corse. 

Thank heaven that with thee it has proved no worse, 

And wholesome penance shall a lesson teach 

Of charity, beyond the grace of speech. 



OCCULTATION OF VeNUS. 

[April 2Ist, i860.] 

The virgin moon with one clear star 
Poised lightly on its shining horn, 

A vestal lamp, whose beauteous flame 
Was for an evening's wonder born — 



Occultation of Venus. 

Thus Venus paused with kindling beams 
O'er lovely Dian's crescent white ; 

A moment quivered, flashed anew, 
Then slowly passed from eager sight. 

O grandest star of matin hours ! 

O loveliest star of tranquil even ! 
What doom has quenched thy peerless ray, 

And robbed the azure dome of heaven ? 

O pain of loss, how sharp thy blade ! 

How keen thy search, bereaved eyes ! 
While swift as thought our glances range 

The glittering spaces of the skies. 

In vain for me red Saturn's rings 
Or Jupiter's revolting moons ; 

Their light, like thine, can never charm 
The silent evening's pensive glooms. 

Love's faithful eye will miss thy gleam 
As twilight steals o'er lake and shore, 

And weep to think those joyous waves 
Reflect thy beauties never more. 



Occuhation of Venus, 93 

One twinkling gleam, and lo ! the star 
Now mourned as lost, fair Dian, glides 

Beside thee, loved companion still, 
On thy calm orbit's tranquil tides. 

Unshorn its ray, undimmed its light. 
But hidden, not withdrawn from view, 

Again the star of love and joy 

Gleams softly from the vaulted blue. 

O friend, whose genius like a star 

Once o'er my life as fairly shone. 
In vain I wait thy swift return 

In death's long occultation gone ! 

Suns, systems, cycles, duly turn 

On thy short axle, finite time. 
And only man still grandly claims 

Eternal spaces, God's sublime 

Infinitude of place, beyond 

Thy blue, and vasty firmament ; 
From whence, to time, none e'er return. 

Though hearts may break in sharp lament. 



94 '^he Golden Gate, 

The Golden Gate. 

In thy still haze of golden light. 
The masted ships float out of sight ; 
The merchandise of distant shores, 
The light skiff with its dipping oars, 
The steaming tug with all the strife 
The laboring pant of present life. 
All, all serenely pass the strait 
Lost in thy haze, O Golden Gate. 

Upon the nearer billow's crest 

My bark drifts on, in wild unrest ; 

The swelling wave, the pitch, the heave, 

Around the sobbing waters grieve. 

While onward through the Golden Gate 

The ships still pass in tranquil state ; 

Till Love, which fain would Hope believe. 

Cries, " Can those distant waves deceive ?" 




The Faded Acorn. 95 

Edith'S Birthday. 



ACROSTIC. 



Edith, " Saxon Edith" brings, 
Darling child, to mind stern things 
In the history of kings ; 
Tender strains of ancient story, 
Human anguish, human glory. 

Happier far than princess gay 
Ever sung in roundelay. 
Artless Edith makes this day 
Live on home's dear page in glory : 
Youth, sweet harpist, tune the story. 



The Faded Acorn. 

Eight years agone, this very morn. 

Young Jamie brought in playful mood 

This acorn, as the prettiest culled 
From all the acorns of the wood. 



96 Orion, 

O summer morning gay with hope ! 

O summer evening chill with horror ! 
Let young larks sing the morning's joy 

But whippoorwill the evening's sorrow. 

Her cypress wreaths with acorns fair, 
And tufts of oak, Fidela weaves ; 

And many a slowly sliding tear 

Drops, heavy, on their mingling leaves. 



P 



RION. 



Orion's belt and sword of power 

Flash brightly, through the clear, keen night, 
And bring to mind one happy hour. 
Like some wild glacier's beauteous flower 

Abloom amid the Arctic white. 

It was no joy of summer time. 

Of flowering hedge, of breezes warm : 

Love gives all seasons one charmed prime ; 

Softly to love the fierce winds chime 
Alean on the beloved arm. 



Orion. 97 

So passed wc clown the wide, bleak street •, 

The lights flared wildly mid the gloom, 
The snow-path crisped beneath our teet, 
Hut love's dear converse kept the sweet 
Key-note of woods in leafy June. 

The wildest, bleakest corner turned, 

Orion caught that master eye 
For which the Southern cross had burned, 
Which had through ocean's leisure learned 

The mystic groups of every sky. 

The winds piped on ; Orion's stars 

We counted, flashing through the night \ 

Thenceforth not Venus, not red Mars, 

I watch at night through lattice bars. 
But grave Orion's girded might. 

Strange stars ! above a grass-grown tomb, 

I ne'er have seen, you nightly shine ; 
Watch gently through the midnight gloom 
Where, waiting God's dread trump of doom. 
Lies that dear dust I claimed as mine. 
5 



Winter. 



1 



INTER. 



On the street, 
I hear the crispy tread of snowy feet ; 

Everywhere, 
Through doors, through windows, creeps the icy air. 

I shiver 
As twilight settles over town and river. 

Looking forth 
So drearily towards the frozen north. 

In the grate 
Glows to its heart the fiery anthracite ; 

Yet the chill 
Of the season pierces through me still. 

But the poor — 
God help them ! To Thy mercy's open door 

Must we bring 
Thy poor ones, Jesus, as their low4y King. 



JV inter. 99 

Hands drop down 
Fainting with hunger, and the well -ted frown 

When they see 
The pinched and pleading face of poverty. 

Poor and thin 
Are the soiled garments they must wander in ; 

While the proud 
Still claim the warm, soft cashmere for a shroud. 

Old teeth must 
Break with slow, patient toil the refuse crust. 

While a dish 
Suits the young gourmand's every varying wish. 

Yet the poor, 
Jesus, are Thine ; and, as to make it sure. 

For their sake 
Thou didst Thy cradle of a manger make. 

All Thy years. 
Thy thrce-and-thirty, passed in toil and tears ; 

And no bed 
Hadst Thou at night on which to lay Thy head. 



lOO Easter-T^ide. 

In Thy mind 
Thy poor ones live, and still Thy heart so kind 

Remembers 
Bethlehem, and the chill of our Decembers. 

Therefore take 
The shivering to Thy arms for Bethlehem's sake ; 

While sweet heed 
Will Mary take for little ones in need. 



Easter-Tide. 

'* My flesh also shall rest in hope." 

With the spring come happy voices 

On the street, 
Merry greetings, infant laughter 

Gay and sweet. 

With the spring what rush of waters 

To the sea ! 
Brooks run races down the mountains 

In their glee. 



Easter-l'ide. lOl 

With the spring come happy odors ; 

Skies how blue ! 
Grass — you almost see it growing — 

Tipped with dew. 

With the spring, on brookside, hillside, 

In the glen, 
Tangled woodlands, wastes of prairies 

Far from men — 

Everywhere are wild flowers springing, 

Banks of bloom ; 
Snowv clusters break the bearded 

Forest's gloom. 

With the spring, a low, sweet twitter 

Thrills the leaves, 
Where the robin at her nest-work * 

Deftly weaves. 

With the spring ! God knows — God only — 

That dear pain. 
Pressing hearts, whose mortal treasure 

Comes again 



I02 Easter-'Tide. 

Not with leaf-buds, or the sprouting 

Of the grain, 
When its tender blade clothes softly 

All the plain. 

Yet with spring, than spring more precious, 

Comes a hope : 
For this flesh an expectation, 

Strong to cope 

With thee. Death, its deathless pulses 

Beating life. 
Fresh as Heaven's eternal spring-time. 

Which thy strife. 

Blessed Christ, in dying won us ; 

Life, through death. 
Bringing to this weary mortal 

Yielding breath. 

With the spring, then, happy nature 

Keeps with me. 
In this hope of resurrection. 

Jubilee. 



'I' lie Altar and the Hearth. 103 

Blossoms, song-birds, all spring voices 

The world wide. 
Chant thy solemn Paschal blessings, 

Easter-tide. 



The /tLTAR^ AND THE MeARTH, 

High in heaven the full moon rideth, 
High in heaven the moon shines clear. 

Only on the lake's blue distance 
Films the frosty atmosphere. 

With a half regretful feeling 

Drops my shade between the moon 

And the cozy, evening comfort 
Of my softly-lighted room. 

O'er the pictures flicks the firelight. 

O'er the little tropic bower. 
Which before the southern window 

Beareth manv an altar flower. 



T04 '^he Altar ana the Hearth, 

With a sense of blessed quiet, 
Culling out a favorite book 

Rich in lore of sacred sweetness 
From its carved and shaded nook, 

Sorrows, labors, are remembered 
But to point my picture's white ; 

Sophie enters, with a " Please, ma'am. 
Vespers will be sung to-night." 

Chill the firelight, blank the moonlight ; 

Shame, false heart, shame, faint desire ! 
Shame upon the creature comforts 

Which thus quench devotion's fire ! 



From the firelight, from the quiet,- 
Out into the glittering air. 

Pass I with an humbled conscience 
Pass I with a contrite prayer 



Into the Cathedral's shadow. 

Broad and solemn 'neath the moon ; 
Till the portal shows the altar 

Far, far off in blaze of noon ; 



'The Altar and the Hearth. 105 

Blazing with a tranquil rapture 

Like the vision of a saint, 
Mid the screen-work's massive recess 

And the traceries dark and quaint ; 

While the organ's tender anthem, 

Like a palpitating prayer, 
Thrills the arches, where the incense 

Falters, lost in shadows there. 

Hush ! — hushed the grand " Magnificat ;" 
Hushed the " Tantum ergo " 's swell ; 

Only through the odorous incense 
Chimes the beat of silver bell. 

Hushed the crowd in bending silence, 

Adoration, sweet, profound ; 
Till the "Gloria " 's solemn gladness 

Pours its peal on peal of sound. 

Once more in the frosty moonlight ; 

Once more by the hearth's kind blaze ; 

I^ut my heart from its old eyrie 

Spreads its eagle wing of praise. 
5* 



io6 ^he Paschal Flower. 



The Paschal Flow^er^ 

From a crown of pale leaves like the thorny, 

Dry crown of the passion, 
Springs a fresh, tender, purple corolla. 

In grace and fair fashion 

Like the crocus, save as in wild roses 

Are clustered its anthers \ 
And to all eager questionings from us 

Serenely it answers : — 

Paschal blossom, the simple folks call us. 

For at this glad season 
Our pale purple-blooms come as mementoes 

Of Jesus arisen. 

In His hands still the prints of His passion; 

And still we are born 
With this circlet, in ghostly remembrance 

Of His dolorous thorn. 



Moths, 1 07 

As the fold of our Lady's blue mantle, 

Spite all her glad morrow, 
Ever keeps in its lining's faint purple 

The hint of her sorrow ; 

The good Jesus with this has endowed us 

In mystical token — 
The sad tint of His bruise in His anguish. 

And sweet body broken. 

Therefore " Paschal flower " simple folks call us. 

And at this glad season 
Our buds come to them gentle remindals 

Of Jesus arisen. 



Moth 



s. 



An India shawl — of texture wondrous fair, 
Wrought in with rich devices quaint and rare, 
And coloring dcftlv gorgeous, such as blooms 
Only in solemn Asia's handilooms, 
Worn but on pageant days of human pride. 
And, stately service ended, laid aside — 



io8 Moths. 

One day was taken from its choice retreat, 
A camphor box inlaid with spice-woods sweet, 
When lo ! through fold on fold precisely laid, 
Each steeped in purest dyes of loveliest shade, 
A single moth, with dull, and sullen tooth, 
Had cut in silent but relentless ruth. 

O lives of costly leisure, through your years 

Adorned with graceful culture v/hich endears. 

And blessed opportunities, which would 

Delight an angel, for all service good. 

Cuts no dull sluggard tooth of selfish ease — 

Yourselves content because yourselves you please ? 

The good you might have done and did not do. 

Left, like some silent malison, with you 

To work its own revenge, to breed the moth, 

The unsightly worm of spiritual sloth. 

That web of life, of texture wondrous fair. 
Enriched with colors, and devices rare. 
Which God had fashioned from His boundless will 
To such consummate beauty, thwarts His skill : 
What should have been a wedding garment wrought 
With threads of golden deeds, and generous thought 



The Confessor. 109 

Of others' weal or wo, kept bright with use, 
Clean as baptismal robe from sin's abuse. 
Is but a moth-cut tissue, to surprise 
In that dread light which visits dying eyes. 



JHE p 



ONFESSOR. 



Father, I am faint with toil, am weary, 
Weary of my life ; how long and dreary 

Seems the road. 
Leading, though I know it leads, to God : 
Tell me how my courage still to stay 
On this road of toil, this upward way — 

" Pray, child, pray !" 

Oft I hear God's blessed truth condemned. 
Oft I hear His Holy Church contemned ; 

Men revile. 
At the sacred mysteries carp and smile : 
O my Father, thou art learned and wise. 
Some persuasive argument devise — 
" Pray, child, pray !" 



I lO 



T^he Confessor. 



There is dread temptation, full of wrath, 
Waiting for that soul ; alas ! Heaven's path 

Through it lies : 
He is passing on with blinded eyes ; 
Help me, O my Father, I am weak. 
Some good word of warning well to speak : — 

" Pray, child, pray !" 

O my Father, fervent souls have grown 
Lukewarm, thankless ; Jesus claims his own. 

Yet they leave 
His fond heart o'er man's neglect to grieve : 
Father, from thy treasures old and new 
Lend me some sweet shaft to pierce them through 

'' Pray, child, pray !" 




Supplication. 



p. 



PPLICATION 



For all who grope, yet do not know they grope, 

O God ! for Thee— 
For souls who sigh, vet do not know thev sigh. 

Sweet Lord, for Thee — 
For all who light would love if but that light 

They once could see — 
We supplicate, anew, Thv loving charity. 

For those who light receive, and yet that light, 

O Lord, reject — 
For those who truth perceive, yet more than truth 

Man's eyes respect. 
And, with perverse desire, while claiming good 

The wrong elect — 
From their own wilful blindness, patient Lord, protect. 

iMan cannot scan man's heart ; God's eye alone 

Its secret reads ; 
We see the ill, yet cannot trace the wound 

From which it bleeds, 



112 Supplication. 

And our poor skill stops close upon the edge 

Of sorest needs ; 
We sow, yet know not where will spring the goodly 
seeds. 

With tears, and prayers, we labor for that soul 

Whose peace we crave ; 
Tribes, nations, generations go their way; 

But this to save 
Fire, tempest, shipwreck, calumny if need — 

All we could brave. 
Or moulder slowly on within an unnamed grave. 

The tear, the sigh, the agony of prayer, 

Of all request. 
We give to Thee, great God, for near or far 

As serves Thee best : 
All, all are dear to Thee ; we sink the choice 

In Thy behest : 
Canst Thou the hearts withstand which on Thee 
blindly rest ? 




'The Orphans Cry. 113 



The Orphans' Cry. 

" O, the dreary, cheerless winter ! 

O, the fearful, bitter cold !" 
And the little orphans shiver. 

Little orphans of Christ's fold, 
As He shivered, through December, 

In harsh Bethlehem's crib of old. 

Do you hear them, hear them. Christians, 
In your homes, so fair and warm ? 

In your homes where you have clustered 
All your little ones from harm, 

Where the baby lies so snugly. 
Pillowed on Its mother's arm ? 

Do you hear their cry, O mothers. 

Mothers of a happy brood, 
Do you hear the orphans pleading, 

" O, sweet Christian, kind and good, 
Give us, for the love of Jesus, 

Give us clothing, give us food !" 



1 14 T^he Orphans Cry, 

Happy fathers, happy mothers, 
Brothers, sisters, children all, 

Do you hear, with "-Merry Christmas !" 
This sad plea, the orphans' call. 

As they huddle in discomfort, 

God's own younglings, dear and small ? 

We have heard your tender pleadings. 
We have heard your shivering sigh : 

Never, surely, can a Christian 
Pass the needy orphan by ; 

Never hope for pard'ning mercy, 
Should he slight your helpless cry. 

Christ, in you, O tender children, 
As in Bethlehem's crib we see ; 

Like His feeble, infant wailing, 
Is the little orphan's plea ; 

For He said, 'VThe cup of water. 
In My name, is given Me !" 



T^he Children s Mass. 



The Children's Mass. 



On these blessed Sunday mornings, 
All the early Masses done, 

And before, in all the churches. 
The grand High-Mass is begun ; 

Comes the Mass for you, my children. 
Others cannot pass the door ; 

From the loft peals forth the organ. 
And the children are the choir. 

Yes, for you, O happy children, 
God is in the Host adored. 

For you His sweet body lifted. 

For you His sweet blood is poured. 

All to bring your childhood graces 
In its hour of special need ; 

Make you, of the dear child Jesus, 
Faithful followers indeed. 



1 1 6 Isabell. 

Happy, happy, happy children ! 

In your Innocence thrice blessed. 
He who made you, claimed you, saved you. 

Is become your special guest. 

Never let us grown-up people 

Crowd upon the children's Mass ; 

On their little souls so tender 
All Its floods of mercy pass : 

And, O children dear, remember — 
With it let your young hearts burn — 

For this special grace and mercy 
Make your Jesus sweet return. 



SABELL. 



I asked a poet, could he tell 
In his song I loved so well. 
Something of our Isabell ? 



IsabelL nj 

Could he to charmed numbers set 
This choice bud, with spring dews wet, 
My heart's child, my violet ? 

Eyes, I said, which caught their hue. 

With a mystic transport too. 

From the sky's high heaven of blue. 

Blushes, smiles, and winning graces. 

Ever tempting new caresses. 

While like sunlight gleam her tresses. 

Such her beauty's dazzling store -, 

Yet, O poet, far, far more 

Is this child to my heart's core. 

Blush, and smile, and winsome air. 
But my darling's love declare ; 
Eyes but mirror soul more fair. 

Thus as to my heart I press her, 

In sweet silence I caress her. 

Praying, " Heart of Jesus, bless her !" 



1 1 8 Robin Redbreast. 

Heart of Jesus, meek and tender. 
Heart of Mary, O, defend her. 
Never unto ill surrender, 

"Jesus ! Mary !" lisping plead 
Her young lips for daily need ; 
Jesus ! Mary ! sweetly heed. 



Robin Redbreast. 

An early bird is our Robin, bold Rob, 

The first of the frosty spring, 
A russet blush on his rounded breast. 
And sunlight tipping his wing. 

With a chirp how he hops from bough to bush. 
And his song how blithe and clear ! 

Our youngest darling knows Robin Redbreast, 
The merriest bird of the year. 

On the sweetbrier bush, just under the eaves. 

See, Robin has built his nest ; 
And where is the child with hand so rude 

As Robin's home to molest ? 



To Fanny. i 1 9 

But mamma will slide the shutter each morn 

To give a glimpse, on the sly, 
At the lovely blue eggs by Redbreast laid. 

In the nest so snug and shy. 

From the topmost bough of that loftv elm 

He sings to his mate so dear. 
And four little robins will Redbreast raise 

To sing us sweet songs next year. 

And when the four little robins are fledged^ 

If our own Robins are good, 
They shall hear a story of Robin Redbreasts 

And two dear " Babes in the Wood." 



Jo p 



NNY, 



ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY, 



One milestone you have passed alrcadv. 

Little ladv. 
On the slippery wav we mortals walk 

Before we talk. 



I20 '1^0 Fanny. 

Many a baby, dearly loved as thou, 

Has drooped its brow. 
Closing, with a look of awed surprise, 

Its beauteous eyes. 

Lilies were they, under mystic doom 

Never to bloom 
This side Heaven -, the while an angel said, 

" Spare earth this maid." 

Angel, who thus claimed her for us, lend 

Yourself her friend ; 
Unkindly stayed from Heaven, if not to share 

Your duteous care. 

Tiny feet to our rough ways unused 

Are sadly bruised ; 
Innocence sees not through the disguise 

Of practised lies. 

Angel ! take her softly by the hand ; 

Her foes withstand ; 
Shield her, with your wings so heavenly bright, 

From envious sprite. 



Fido. 1 2 I 



Win her, by your sweet effectual plea, 

Security, 
When death's dark stream and fast 

At length is past. 



f 



IDO. 



We miss something from the house 
Which is quiet as a mouse, 
Miss the chccrv bark and bound. 
When our well-known footsteps sound 
On the nicely-gravelled walk. 
Past the flowering hollyhock. 
Past the woodbine's clambering vine, 
Past the sweeter eglantine ; 
Miss the lifted, shaggy paw 
Sheathing every dangerous claw. 
Miss the frisking, joyful race 
And poor Fido's loving face. 
6 



1 2 2 Fido. 

He was always at the door, 

If not at the gate before, 

And his innocent caress 

Gave a moment's happiness 

When my weary, wayworn feet. 

Turning slowly from the street. 

Sought the peaceful, sheltering home 

Which was P'ido's and my own \ 

And, though weary, I would bend 

To salute my little friend, 

Pat the wagging, tuited head 

As he to the doorstep led. 

And declare, no prettier, merrier 

Dog e'er lived than my Skyc terrier. 

Now I feel an aching start, 
P'eel a pain upon my heart, 
When a happy bark 1 hear 
And there is no Fido near ; 
And I think, 1 might have been 
Kinder even, had 1 then 
Dreamed this faithful little friend 
Would so soon his good life end. 



For Mary and J Til lie, \ 2 j 

For I cannot now recall 

One false trick, of this so small 

Type of fealty and trust, 

Turning fast to caitli and dust ; 

And a tear mv eyelids wet, 

Saying, I will not forget. 

With both tongue and pen, to praise 

f/ittle Fido's pleasant ways. 



Fop^^ Mary and Willie. 

My dear little kitty, my Tabby so fair, 
As gay as a feather just dancing in air ! 
No leopard can boast of more beautiful dyes ; 
Fhe blue of the sky is the blue of your eyes ; 
Like four lovely roses your four little paws. 
And set like sharp thorns are your dainty white claws 
So faultless in beauty, so artlessly gay, 
You charm from my heart half its sadness away. 
Delighted I watch all your innocent wiles. 
No shadow of malice your beauty defiles ; 



24 Piayfeilo 



ws. 



Your innocent archness, your delicate grace, 
With something most human I see in your face, 
Recalls, with a gentleness dear to my mind. 
An airy young figure, words have not defined. 
And dear, as they only are dear, who again 
Ah ! never will solace our loneness or pain. 

And now you have come from your frolic and play. 
And mousing your pretty, light fancies so gay. 
To curl yourself up for a while on my lap, 
And close your blue eyes in a soft pussy nap ; 
While tenderly over your warm little fur, 
I pass my fond fingers and list for your purr, 
And think, what a darling, and treasure, and jov. 
Is our dear little Tabby, so graceful and coy. 



f 



LAYFELLOWS. 



Dash and Nellie were babies together ; 

Now does not this sound very droll ? 
For, poor Dash, he was only a puppy, 

And Nellie, dear child, had a soul. 



Playfellows, 125 

Nellie toddled, while Dash he could scamper, 

And merrily roll on the floor ; 
But, their wild frolic happily ended. 

Both basked in the sun at the door. 

Nellie's round, tender arm, so confiding. 

Lay safe on his wide open jaw. 
And his wise, watchful eyes looked on baby's 

As if her least wish was his law. 

If she moved, he moved too, like her shadow ; 

And when she the truant would play, 
Dash would pull at her little blue apron 

As if he to Nellie would say, 

" Little girl, you know well, never, never 

Beyond this small gate can we go. 
And to all disobedient children 

Come trouble and danger, you know." 

> 
Dash has grown to a farm-dog majestic. 

White collar, and high bushy tail 
X^hich looks like a white plume in the distance, 

And makes all intruders to quail. 



126 A C^nld's ^estion. 

And old Dash, too, like every good watch-dog, 
Keeps guard o'er the household at night, 

While he welcomes each member returning 
With gambols, and bark of delight. 

Our dear Nellie has grown to a school-girl. 
But still she will make up a plate 

Of nice fragments, for Dash, her playfellow, 
Who never would pass the small gate. 



A Chil-Id's Question. 

" What is this ?" said little Bertie, 
Pet and youngest one of all, 

In his eyes a mighty question, 

While his hand, so plump and small. 

Held a crucifix extended — 

" Bertie knows ; a cross, my dear ;" 
" Yes," said he, '' but who is on it ?" 

With a look surpassing fear. 



A Child's ^lestion. 127 

'' That is Jesus Christ, my darling, 

Jesus, Saviour of the world ;" 
Still he pondering stood, and wistful. 

But no word the wish unfurled. 

Next day came, with sunshine, pastime ; 

Bertie, darling, just past three, 
Made the old house ring with laughter. 

Brought life's sunshine back to me. 

Flitted in and out the children, 

By my side, now here, now there ; 

To their music set my duty. 
Lent a cadence to my praver. 

But the wings of the immortal 

Fledge, while mortal forces sleep, 
And a question left unanswered 

Childhood's heart will safely keep. 

So again mid sunshine, pastime, 

That poor crucifix he brought, 
In his st)lemn eyes the shadow 

Of an awed, adoring thought. 



128 ^^ And the Virgin s Name was Mary.'' 

Pointing with persistent finger 

To the suffering image dear, 
" Is that God ?" he asked, in whisper 

Such as angels bend to hear. 

Theologians had been cautioned 
Not to stir, with mysteries dread. 

Childish wonder or emotion ; 
" Reason is by reason fed." 

And that law, unto the letter, 

Had been kept : " Sweet Christ," I sighed, 
" Thou art drawing all hearts to thee 

By thy shame of crucified." 



II And the Virgin's Name was M.ary, 

LUKE I, 27. 

In a pleasant old village of blessed Judea, 
That beautiful land we all love and revere, 
Remote from the dust and the sin of the town. 
In a low, shaded cottage, quite mossy and brown. 
Lived a pious, meek couple, Joachim and Ann, 
Beloved of God, tjuite untroubled by man. 



^^And the Virgin s Name was MaryT 129 

Fresh roses bloomed sweetly around the low door, 

And lilies bloomed meekly In pots on the floor, 

But no rose was so sweet and no lily so fair. 

As the child of their love, the one pearl of their care j 

So lovely, so gentle, so modest, so chary. 

And the name of this dear little virgin was Mary, 

Ah, never a shade of displeasure was seen 

On the beautiful brow of this virgin serene ; 

No lamb of the flock so contented and meek, 

Yet the first blush of morn was less bright than her 

cheek. 
And no carol of bird was so sweet, as the tone 
Of her clear, happy laugh. In her brown cottage home. 

So tenderly due was the reverence, paid 

To her parents so dear, by this dear little maid. 

So willing her feet, and her smile was so gay. 

When she turned, at their call, from her Innocent play. 

That never, I deem, were there parents so blessed. 

As Joachim and Ann, of this treasure possessed. 

The foam of mid ocean, the snow wreath that curls 
On the crest of HImmaleh, the ocean's best pearls, 



I JO Christmas Carol. 

Are less pure than her thoughts, whose clear white- 
ness was dim 

With no shadow of birth and no shadow of sin ; 

And more precious than incense the prayers that were 
given, 

From her innocent heart, to the Father in Heaven. 

'Ah, never the name of that virgin I hear. 
Called " blessed " by angels, to mortals how dear ! 
But a throb of quick feeling beats strong at my heart 
And this wish ot my soul to her ear I impart \ 
O, Virgin so lovely, so modest, so chary. 
To the child of our hearts be most gracious, sweet Lady, 
For the name of our dear little treasure is Alary ! 



Christmas Parol. 

Have you heard the wondrous story, 
Bethlehem*s story, sv/eet and old. 

Of an Infant's raying glory 

From a manger bare and cold ? 



Christmas Carol. i j i 

Bleak the stable, cold the manger, 

But the " Word made flesh " was seen 

Bv the shepherds, by the Magi, 
Radiant, lovely and serene. 

Icy winds of bleak December 

Shook the stable, rude and worn ; 
But the angels well remember 

Where their King, the Christ was born ; 

Well remember how His Mother, 

Mary, Virgin Mother blessed, 
With a worship like no other 

Mother, her own babe caressed. 

Mother's love with adoration. 

Tender, rapturous, profound — 
He had come, the world's salvation. 

And her arms her (jod surround ! 

We would hasten with the shepherds 

Through the midnight to adore, 
Join the Magi's band intrepid. 

Incense, mvrrh, and ^old in stDre. 



132 'The Holy Name of Jesus. 

Never can a gift too costly 

Touch the manger's humble shrine ; 
Never can a gift too lowly, 

Jesus, touch that throne of thine. 

On the straw, which made thy pillow. 

Poverty contented lies ; 
While our pride, like some spent billow. 

Breaks against that crib, and dies. 

Infant Jesus ! Bethlehem's Wonder ! 

Mary's Babe ! My God ! My All ! 
By thy manger, can no wanderer 

Vainly on thy mercy call. 



The Woly Name of Jesus. 

Sweet Name, which makes the dying live, 
Which gives the blind their sight. 

The source of all my faith, my hope. 
My safety, my delight ! 



'•The Holy Name of Jesus. 133 

Sweet Name, which cooled the martyr's tire, 

And o'er each torment new 
A charm of heavenly comfort shed, 

A fresh, celestial dew ! 

Sweet Name, which bids temptation flv. 

And baffles Satan's power ; 
What name like thine can bear me up 

In death's appalling hour ! 

On Mary's lip, o'er Bethlehem's Crib 

That Name of sweetness clung. 
And I can learn its accent best 

From her transported tongue. 

O Mary ! teach me to pronounce 

That Name of names most dear, 
And softly bend adoring head 

When Jesu's Name 1 hear. 




17'. T^he Anzelus. 



T" 



Angelus. 



Hark ! count the strokes, — three — four — five — six ; 

Come all my dear children dear, 
Let us recite the Angelus^ 

Our Lady's heart to cheer. 

In cities large and populous, 

From all the belfries round, 
Three times a day the Angelus 

Rings out with joyful sound. 

Three times a day dear Gabriel's " Hail," 

The faithful all repeat ; 
Three times a day " Thy handmaid, Lord !" 

Our Lady's answer meet. 

Three times a day " The Word made flesh," 

Repeat on bended knee. 
The meekness of redeeming love 

Adoring reverently. 



The Angelas, 135 



In our dear home, so still and green, 

There is no belfry near. 
Whose goodly bell the Angelus 

Rings out with solemn cheer. 

But still the house-clock's tuneful stroke 

At six, at twelve, and six. 
Should never fail, my children dear, 

Your wandering thoughts to fix 



Upon that loveliest mystery 

Of God's Incarnate Word, 
Which Alary first, from Gabriel's '^ Hail !", 

With loving wonder heard. 

And year by year the Angelus 

W^ill have a tenderer sound. 
With something more of heaven within 

Its mvstcry profound. 




136 The Rosary, 



Jhe f. 



O^KBJX. 



Now we have said the Angelus, 

Will not my children see 
Who will, with most devotion, say 

Our Lady's rosary ? 

And baby, though she cannot tell 
Her beads, her beads will hold. 

To learn to love them more than toys. 
Or pearls, or gems, or gold. 

Her little serious face bespeaks 

A gentle, pious mind, 
And soon the rosy fingers small 

Will learn the bead to find. 

In those three Names in which we all 

Were solemnly baptized, 
The lovely rosary begins. 

By saints so dearly prized. 



The Rosary. 13 

Hien " 1 believe ;" and every voice 

Will make responses clear, 
While pressing close the crucifix 

With faith, love, hope, and fear. 

A sacred mystery belongs 

To every decade fair. 
On which we all must meditate 

With love and studious care. 

While, bead by bead, " Our Father " first, 

Then ten " Hail Maries " say, 
And " Glory to the Father, Son, 

And Holy Ghost" alway. 

'' Our Father," as my children know. 

Is that best form of prayer 
Our Lord to his disciples gave -, 

They taught it everywhere. 

And Gabriel, Archangel bright. 

The first " Hail Mary " said. 
When from high heaven with message grand 

More swift than light he sped. 



ijS T^he Rosary. 

That blessed " Hail," like some sweet strain 

Of music left unsung, 
Was finished by Elizabeth's 

Devout, prophetic tongue. 

And we to their glad " Hail " would add 

This meekly suppliant cry, 
" O Mary, pray for us both now 

And when we come to die." 

Fifteen mysteries, on fifteen 

Decades of blessed beads. 
The Rosary makes : he says it best 

Who best each mystery heeds. 

Five joyful mysteries, like five 

Spring roses, snowy white, 
Tell of the Holy Infancy 

Of Jesus with delight. 

Five mysteries sorrowful, like five 

June roses, deep, and red. 
Tell of our Saviour's sufferings, 

And how for us he bled. 



First of May. 139 

Five mysteries glorious, like five 

Large roses, tint like gold, 
The resurrection wonderful 

And bliss of heaven unfold. 

The longest life would not suffice, 

Should we each day recite, 
To say the beads and ponder all 

The mvsteries aright. 

Yet day by day the Rosary 

Still dearer will become, 
And lead our thoughts more earnestly 

To our eternal home. 



First of May. 

Songsters on the budding spray 
Sing, blessed May, blessed May ; 
Lark and linnet lend your throat ; 
Robin, too, your clearest note ; 
To our Lady's month of song 
Sweetest canticles belonLi. 



140 First of May, 

Rippling rills through woodlands heard, 
Join your voice with singing bird ; 
Rivers through the flowery mead 
Your glad chorus too we need ; 
To our Lady's month of song 
Sweetest canticles belong. 

Round Saint Mary's fair domain, 
Breezes, breathe a soft refrain ; 
Fragrant birch and odorous pine 
Lift your sighs at day's decline ; 
To our Lady's month of song 
Sweetest canticles belong. 

Thankful heart of childhood gay 
With the birds sing, blessed May •, 
" Sing with stream and odorous pine 
Round Loretto's lovely shrine. 
For to Mary's month of song 
Sweetest canticles belong. 




Notre Dame. 14 



Notre Dame. 

Crown her Queen of Ang-els, 
Queen of Patriarchs too ; 

Crown her Queen of Prophets, 
And Apostles true. 

Crown her Queen of Martyrs, 
Of Confessors strong ; 

Crown her Queen of Virgins, 
Staid and beauteous throng. 

Of All-Saints we crown her 

Ever gracious Queen, 
Aiding mortal struggles 

With her prayer serene. 

Crown her, with sweet anthems, 
Queen of Heavenly Love ; 

Sweeter songs surround her 
In the courts above. 



142 Mater 'Dei, 



}kKi:'£.Yi. Dei, 



Who would our Virgin Lady fitly sing, 
Must of his heart make lowly offering 
To that meek Heart of the Incarnate Word, 
Where love for Mary is most richly stored. 

Who at that mother's venerable side, 
With such a duteous silence did preside, 
Who of her virgin flesh. His flesh did take. 
Yet not that vase of sweet perfection break \ 

Who raised to her an infant's pleading cry ; 
Who at her breast did thirsty lips apply. 
And in her tender arms contented dwell — 
That Son can best His mother's praises tell. 

Not Bethlehem's crib alone or trembling flight 
To Egypt, lest rash Herod's hand should smite 
The world's Redeemer, or the worship paid 
In that small workshop under Nazareth's shade. 



Mater Dei. 143 

Can compass that strange tale of sacred lore 
O'er which the ages still delighted pore 
To see, wherever Jesus' self appears, 
The Virgin Mother smiling through her tears. 

The miracle by Cana's wedding guest, 

The Lord vouchsafed at her most dear request ; 

An act of deference to her began 

The three years' ministry of love to man. 

While eager crowds in listening silence hung 
Upon each word from the Messiah's tongue, 
In court or temple, or, when pushed from shore. 
His fisher's boat lay meekly on its oar ; 

Or in the desert wild to which He fled. 

Yet turned in pity, breaking first the bread 

Of life and truth, and then dispensing food 

Unto the fainting throng which round Him stood. 

Could Mary of her nation singly stand 
Unmoved by that attraction, humble, grand. 
To follow through the dust of field or street 
The shining prints of those benignant feet ? 



144 Mater 'Dei. 

That tender form, that mantle's virgin grace 
Which held in softest shade th' adoring face, 
How often must have met His gentle eye. 
While Scribe and Pharisee stood carping by ! 

But as at Bethlehem so on Calvary's height 
The Mother claimed and won a mother's right ; 
For she who said, " Behold Thy handmaid. Lord !" 
As meekly stood beside the expiring Word. 

O grace of meekness, of humility. 

Surpassing even her virginity. 

Which thus would teach a mother's heart to chime 

With her Redeemer's sacrifice sublime ! 

Not Mary's woes alone broke Mary's heart ; 

Of Jesus' " every wound she felt the smart," 

As that same sinless blood she gave His veins. 

The rough, hard Cross, and skulls on Calvary stains. 

Who then would Mary from her Son divide, 
Would take that faithful Mother from His side, 
Who kept her watch upon that direful spot 
Where soldiers on His vesture cast their lot ? 



Mater Dei. 145 

While from the hca\'cns the sun withdrew his head, 
And riven rocks gave up the " sheeted dead," 
While stern centurions beat their breasts with fright. 
His dying eyes above attract her sight. 

Amid the dreadful gloom, those dying eyes 
Seek Mary's, and, through agonizing sighs. 
Of His own Mother He makes sweet bequest ; 
Of men, through John, disciple, one request. 

" Thy son, O mother ! Me in him behold ! 
O son, thy mother take !" O heart most cold 
Which would to such a mother measure forth 
Its loving tenderness or sense of worth ! 

Then, Mary, for my Mother dear I take 
To cherish evermore for Jesus' sake ; 
Nor other title crave than that most broad 
Of Marv, Blessed Mother of mv God ! 




146 Ave Maria. 



Aye Maria 



Ave Maria ! an angel said, 
To lowly Nazareth's lowly maid ; 
Ave Maria ! those accents sweet, 
My lips with transport oft repeat. 

For still that name's beloved sound 
Makes all my happy pulses bound, 
And still its lingering, saintly charm, 
I softly shield from loss or harm. 

Remember, dear, whose blessed name 
Is your bright privilege to claim. 
And each remembrance fond shall win 
Defence from danger, grief, and sin ! 




A Fancy. 147 



/P 



NCY. 



Something you may call a fancy 
Struck my heart again to-day, 

As I turned, dear Salvadora, 

Towards mv little shrine to pray ; 
Pray 

For dear Salva, did 1 say ? 

But the fancy I must tell you, 

For an old Castilian sound 
Rings, as if from precious metal, 

When thy name is breathed around ; 
Spain 
In its high chivalric reign. 

And within that fancy hideth 

Yet another, dearer still ; 
As love hides its dearest treasures 

From world's eyes with wondrous skill 
Blame 
Not the friend who loves thy name. 



148 Regina Virginum, 

Every morning, every evening, 
Often through the crowded day, 

Comes a prayer to soothe my sorrow, 

Waft my heart to heaven alway ; 

" Salve ! 

Salve ! Regina !" thus I pray. 

" Salve ! Salve !" thus the fancy 
Fastened on my mind to-day ; 

" Salve ! Salve !" thus in anthem 
Prays thy name for thee alway : 
Pray 

With thy name, dear friend, this day. 



Regina Virginum 

Mary " Queen of Virgins :" 

Thus we love to call 
Her who Is, through Jesus, 

Mother of us all. 



Regina Virginum. 149 

To this '' Qiieen of Virgins" 

Lilies of the field, 
As she walked the meadows, 

Did sweet homage yield. 

But a sweeter homage 

Than the lilies even, 
Can a Christian maiden 

Yield the Qiieen of Heaven. 

Thou2;hts whose guarded whiteness 

With her lilies vie. 
Hearts whose chaste affections 

Keep a heavenward eye ; 

Courage, meekness, patience, 

Modest look and mien, 
Win the dearest favor 

Of our blessed Qiieen. 

Mary, " Queen of Virgins," 

Aid us by thy prayer ; 
Lilies never needed. 

As we need, thy care. 



50 The Lily of the Purification. 



The Lily of the Purification, 



Haste for our Lady's feast, dear bud, to bloom, 
Opening so fresh mid winter's sterile gloom ; 
Thy petal, virgin white, 
Unfold for her delight ; 
With thy still 'prisoned sweets 

Incense her shrine. 
Whose odorous prayer entreats 
Her Son divine ! 



For this, thy bulb's slow growth I watched for years, 
While thy broad leaves unsheathed, tipped with strange 

tears ; 
From frost protected, and from glaring sun ; 
And now I see so lovely guerdon won. 
No mortal sense shall claim thy chaste perfumes — 
For thee, O Virgin Blessed ! my sacred lily blooms. 



The Liiy of the Purification. 1 5 i 

In this pure cup of sweetness, I present 
My contrite tears, my sighs of banishment ; 

O win for me her prayer, 

Who bloomed so rare 

In Nazareth's garden fair ; 
O win her prayer, who at ecstatic height 
Dwells, crowned and beauteous, in that blaze of light 

Which stuns the archangel's sight ; 

Tranced in the Eternal Eye 

Of Triune Deity. 

With soul assoiled and eyes abashed, I stand. 
The peerless lily in my trembling hand. 

Before thy humble shrine, 

O Virgin most benign : 
Thou Qiicen of Mercy, hear my contrite sigh ; 
Commend me to the Majesty on high. 

Who without spot or stain 

Did thee, heayen's pearl, retain -, 
And from my soul's dark mould, with smiles, inyite 
The lily*s fragrant bloom in more than Eden white. 




152 Our Lady of the Angels. 



Our Lady of the Angels. 

The roses of summer are faded, quite gone, 

Not a lingering bud can we see ; 
But the hedges of autumn are gay in the sun, 

They are blooming, sweet Lady, for thee. 

The asters in pomp of variety stand. 

Where the Golden Rod's sceptre appears. 

While, low in the meadow, "Our Lady's fringed eye" 
Is still lifted in beauty and tears. 

The fairest and freshest from meadow and hedge, 
On thy altar. Blessed Mother, we lay. 

For Mary is Queen of the Angels, and we 
Keep the feast of our Angels to-day. 

From all the flushed woodlands the songsters are flown. 

Not a thrush or a robin we hear; 
But above, in the courts of our Beautiful One, 

Music ceases not, all the glad year. 



\ 



Our Lady's Lilies. 153 

O teach us, bright Guardians, that song of delight, 
Which was ancient when Eden was new, 

And Mary will offer the praises we sing. 
In concert, dear Angels, with you. 



Our Lady's Lilies. 

You wonder why my tropic lilies thrive, 
In this small room, this crowded busy hive 

I call my home, 
More freelv than beneath thy marble dome ; 

And then declare 
Some charm lies in mv touch, or in the air, 
And this is why my lilies bloom so fair. 

Sweet friend, the mystery 1 will frankly tell ; 
Upon it let thy heart one moment dwell : 

The lilies know. 
As well as you and I, where they will go, 

And from the root 
Their snow-white arrows ever duly shoot. 
Our Lady's feasts with gladness to salute. 



54 Our Lady of the Infirmary. 

Our Lady's place, her own dear Son beside, 
Is where her hhes ever choose to bide, 

And there adore 
In ecstasy of silence evermore : 

Their perfumes plead 
For us, poor pilgrims, in our sorest need, 
And Jesus must his Mother's lilies heed. 



Our Lady of the Infirmary, 

'*Salus infirmoium, ora pro nobis !" 

All clothed in white the tiny beds 

Head closely to the wall ; 
" Our Lady of the Infirmary" 

Smiles sweetly down on all. 

The children moan upon their beds, 

They toss in feverish plight ; 
" Look up, O weary little ones. 

And ease your aching sight. 



Our Lady of the Infirmary. 155 

"Upon you all tVom yonder wall 

Smiles our own Lady dear !" 
The children gaze in soft amaze. 

And with a wondrous cheer. 



The Sister's voice goes mildly on : 
'' So smiled, that Christmas day, 

Our Lady as she laid her son 
Upon His bed of hay. 

'' The tears stood on her babe's pale cheek- 
But Jesus as a child 

Gave back a look of blessedness 
Whenever Mary smiled. 

" She smiles on vou, my little ones, 

Just as she smiled that day 
On her dear Jesus, as he moaned 

Li his rough crib of hay. 

"And who, of all my children dear. 

Will not a grateful smile 
Return to Mary, who thus deigns 

His anguish to beguile ?" 



1 5 6 Regina. 

The suffering faces brightening turned 

To Mary on the wall, 
And beams of Bethlenem's cradle love 

Transfigured each and all. 



]^ 



EGINA, 



To-day, 
Our dear Regina was the Qiieen of May ; 

In her hand 
A snow-white Lily bearing for a wand, 

Type to be 
Of our own blessed Lady's purity: 

Rose-buds wild. 
And meadow violets with blue eyes mild. 
Peeped from the basket of the happy child, 

P'or to-day 
Our dear Regina was the Queen of May. 



Regina. 157 

All the unsipped honey of the year 

Yi'om eglantine, 

And cdlumbinc, 
And white clover tufts both far and near, 
Could but hint the innocent excess 
Of Reglna's artless happiness : 

In her hand 
A snow-white Lily bearing for a wand — 

Type to be 
Of our Virgin Mother's purity : 
Meadow violets, with blue eyes mild, 
Like our Blessed Lady's, bore the child — 

Types to be 
Of our Lady's dear humility : 

Roses, too. 
Nursed by vernal rain and vernal dew — 

Types to be 
Of our heavenly Lady's charity : 

For to-day 
Our dear Regina was the Queen of May. 

Thus were typified, in childish guise. 
Heavenly graces, Heavenly mysteries ; 



8 Our Shepherd. 

We may deem our own sweet Lady smiled 
On the simple pageant which beguiled 
Life of one short hour of busy care, 
Winning even pain bright smiles to wear, 
As forth walked in happy state to-day 
Our dear Regina, reigning Queen of May. 



Our Shepherd. 

To lambs astray o'er mountains bleak 
How sweet the Shepherd's gracious call ; 

He cheers the faint, supports the weak, 
And words of fondness speaks to all. 

Beneath his bosom's sheltering vest 
The tenderest of the flock he bears — 

The helpless ones, above the rest. 
Divide the Shepherd's patient cares. 



A Child's ''Requiescat in Pace.'' 159 

So welcome, O thou Saviour dear, 
To contrite souls thv voice benign. 

Mid sad bewilderments we hear 

And bless the Shepherd's call divine. 

Our mournful wounds, our loss, our blame. 

But make us dearer still to thee. 
Our helplessness, our sweetest claim, 

Our merit, Lord, our misery. 



A Child's ..REquiEscAT in Pace. 

With the gray dawn's faintest break. 
Mother, faithfully I wake. 
Whispering softlv for thy sake, 
Requiescat in pace ! 

When the sun's broad disk at height 
Floods the busy world with light, 
Breathes my soul, with sighs contrite, 
Requiescat in pace ! 



6o A Tear. 

When the twilight shadows lone 
Wrap the home once, once thine own, 
Sobs my heart with broken moan, 
Requiescat in pace ! 

Night, so solemn, grand, and still. 
Trances forest, meadow, rill \ 
Hush, fond heart, adore His will ; 
Requiescat in pace ! 



/ T 



EAR. 



A year ! The mother smiled upon her baby ; 

"See four white teeth have budded out so fair; 
No longer creeping, like a young explorer 

He gayly toddles round from chair to chair." 

Thus jubilant, she smothers with caresses 

The struggling babe, which crows, and laughs, and 
cries ; 

The year, to her, is but another naming 
Of all the youthful mother's ecstasies. 



^he Holy Innocents. i6i 

A year ! — A stony pallor, a light shudder, 
A filming of the eye, a pausing breath ; 

Aghast she stands beside the icy River ! 

Aghast she meets thee face to face, O Death ! 

The cold, cold breath, the little heart's last struggle, 

The eye's last look unutterably fond, 
The sudden silence, sudden cease of motion — 

And Death had snapped life's first and holiest bond. 



The floLY Innocents. 

Each with its rosy crown 
The infant martyrs stand ; 
Each with a tiny palm 

In its small hand. 

O little martyred Saints ! 
How blest above all others 
Of tender, spotless babes 

Snatched from fond mothers ! 



1 62 T^he Holy Innocents. 

Not innocent alone, 
But crowned with that starred merit 
Which they who win through blood 
Alone inherit. 

Ten thousand, thousand tongues 
Of little children, sing 
The infant graces meek 

Of Bethlehem's King. 

But sweetest must their song 
Of loving praises sound. 
Whose blood, for that meek King, 
Soaked Bethlehem's ground. 

Within Heaven's shining ranks 
Of martyrs, grand and old, 
These babes with rapture strike 
Their harps of gold. 

Close by the Lamb they stand ; 
They follow where He goes ; 
Who smiles ineffable 

On them bestows. 



A GirFs Hymn to St. Agnes, 1 6 1^ 

O Jesus ! at death's hour 
With Mary ! Joseph ! send 
One martyred Innocent 
To be mv friend ! 



A GiRL's Wymn to St. Agnes. 

O Virgin mild, in whose chaste pulses beat 
All kindly thoughts in maiden pureness sweet, 
The placid wavings of whose unbound hair 
All saintly odors heavenward meetly bear. 
While thy calm hands in guileless pity hold 
The new-born lamb in thy warm mantle's fold ! 

O Martyr-saint, who with such mystic vows 

Didst thy sweet Lord, the blessed Christ, espouse. 

And thy so lovely limbs with haste invest 

In bridal garments of celestial test. 

In fierce, unpitying flames with joy to prove 

The heroic passion of thy sacred love ! — 



164 A Girl's Hymn to St. Agnes. 

Lo ! I invoke thee, shining from afar, 

Of maidenhood the dear pecuUar star, 

Mid all the saintly host whose radiance shines 

In constellations grand and hallowed signs ; 

In thy clear light, serenely fair, abide, 

O Virgin Martyr, Heaven's unsullied bride! 

For still I deem within thy gentle side, 
The same chaste heart all kindly doth preside ; 
And in my soul the same transfigured will 
Doth lose itself in thy dear Master's still ; 
And I can feel my maiden sorrows pressed. 
Like the young lamb, within thy sheltering vest 




S/. I'eronica. 165 



^x. y 



ERONICA 



When on thy direful Passion's direst day, 
Thou, Jesu dear, didst track thy painful way 
With sacred blood, which in their reckless ire 
The maddened thousands tramped in worthless mire, 
While guards profane and wildly-hooting mob 
Drowned faithful Magdalene's reproachful sob; 
Through Roman <ruard, through all the base, rough 

throng, 
Through serried ranks of veterans grim and strong, 
A timid woman, gentle, sad, and pale. 
With lips that trembled, though they gave no wail, 
Pressed to thy side, thou prostrate Man of Grief, 
And gave, what angels dared not bring, relief. 

The brow that quivered 'neath its thorny crown. 
The thin, bruised cheek, where faintly trickled down 
The mingled drops of sweat and piteous gore 
Which smeared all comeliness and beauty o'er. 
She softly wiped, and from the blinded eyes 
The clinirinii;, clotted tears how gentlv dries : 



1 66 St. Barnabas, 

When lo ! upon the handkerchief appears 

The smitten, suffering face in blood and tears ; 

The aching bruise, the crown of sharpest thorn, 

The sad, sad look of love, of Godhead born, 

All on the pitying linen's hallowed space 

Her breaking heart and eyes adoring trace : 

And time, which spares nor Greek nor Roman fane, 

Before whose breath our gorgeous frescoes wane. 

Withholds from blighting touch or slow decay 

This dear memento of thy Passion day ; 

While "Via Crucis " to this very hour. 

Still guards, of woman's love, this wayside flower. 



St. j3a 



RNABAS. 



Over leagues of Syrian cities, 

Syrian leagues of shrivelled grass, 

Walked the zealous, brave apostle. 
Great Apostle Barnabas. 



<SL Barnabas. 167 

Tropic sunshine, tropic tempest, 

Mountain chill and desert heat, 
Yet they never paused or faltered, 

Those pledged, apostolic feet. 

" Paul and Barnabas," culled choicely 
From that early Christian stock, 

Sailed from Paphos to Pamphilia, 
Planted Christ at Antioch. 

" Paul and Barnabas," as brothers. 

Through the world pressed stoutly on. 

And the wond from pagan darkness 
Was to Christian gladness won. 

Thus we see him through the gorgeous 

Vista of the ages back ; 
Now with breezy grandeur pencilled 

By our pious Overbeck. 

Staff in hand — and O, that wishful. 

Holy wishful gaze abroad, 
O'er the fields on fields of nations 

To be harvested for God ! 



1 68 Saint Guduld s Visit. 

They who wait for India's shipping, 
Misers clutching heaps of gold, 

May be fathomed ; but Apostle's 
Greed for souls was never told. 

Human yearning or aspiring. 

Love which would love's self surpass, 

Never touched thy holy longing. 
Great Apostle Barnabas ! 



Saint Gudula's Visit. 



O tender virgin chaste. 
Who \vith such holy haste 
Art seeking, ere the dawn 
Of winter's chilliest morn. 
The dim, retreating shrine 
Where thy sweet Lord, divin: 
So near thee to abide 
Doth His least glory hide ; 



Saint Gudulas Visit. 169 

And, reft of kingly state 

On thy meek visit wait ; 

From Heaven's high throne descending, 

And harmonies unending 

Of rapt adoring love, 

To list the meanings of His faithful dove ! 

Thine angel well doth mark 

Thy footsteps through the dark 

Of ancient, cloistral pile. 

Of arched, and spectral aisle ; 

And — when, mid sullen night, 

Thy lantern's slender light. 

Blown by rude gusts, goes out 

And thou art left in doubt — 

He, all unseen by thee 

In thy simplicity. 

For love, O heavenly maid. 

Of thy sweet virtues staid. 

Relights thy virgin lamp 

To cheer the heavy gloom and cloistral damp. 




lyo Peruginds Magdalene. 



-Perugino's Magdalene 



O'er an altar dwells a picture 

Of a Magdalene so fair ; 
Very humble, very gentle, 

Downcast look and knotted hair ; 

Hands that cross, in tender meekness, 
O'er a breast absolved and pure ; 

Sorrow tinging loving worship 

Of the Hand which thus can cure. 

Loveliest bloom of pardoning mercy ; 

Loveliest type of ransomed race ; 
Innocence itself might envy 

That chaste bosom's dower of grace ! 

Seraph's heart in mortal body ; 

Love won love at Jesu's feet ; 
Measure full and overflowing ; 

Brimming fountain pure and sweet. 



The Bell of the Good Shepherd. 171 

She, to whom Thou most hast pardoned, 
Most hath loved Thee, Lord benign ; 

On our path of tears and labor, 
Star of penance, mildly shine ! 



The Bell of the House of the Good 
Shepherd. 

Every evening o'er the prairies. 

O'er the town. 
Floats a voice which noise and tumult 

Cannot drown. 

Tender voice of holy welcome. 

Silvery clear. 
Wakening in the heart it reaches, 

Many a tear. 

Lo ! He calls, the one Good Shepherd, 

Mild and dear. 
To His lambs astray and wretched 

Far and near : 



172 I'he Bell of the Good Shepherd, 

" From the highways and the by-ways 

Will I bring 
Guests, to fill the waiting table 

Of the King. 

" Many a box of fragrant spikenard 

Waits me, where 
Mortals only mark a mortal 

' False as fair.' " 

Thus at evening, o'er the prairie. 

O'er the town. 
Calls He in a voice which tumults 

Cannot drown. 

Far as float those vesper chimings. 

Does the bell 
This Good Shepherd's tender welcome 

Sweetly tell. 




Saint Lucy. ^73 



Saint Lucy, 



The giving of my eyes 

In loving sacrifice 

Was my appointed w^ay ; 
No soft decline from the meridian day 
Through dusky twilight slowly into dark, 
But blackness, bloody, swift and stark. 

From hands unkind, 

And I was blind. 

Thus reads the story, writ on sacred scroll 
Of Lucy, virgin martyr : that sharp dole 
Won Heaven's eternal brightness for her soul ; 
The blotting out of sunshine, the recoil 
From utter blankness, the heart's gasp and sp.ism 
Before the unseen void, the imagined chasm 
Of untried darkness, was the martyr-toil 
Whose moment's agony surpasses years— 
The long, long years of patience and of tears 



174 Saint Lucy. 

Allotted unto others. "All for all ;" 
Not doling out with a reluctant hand, 
But in one holocaustal offering grand, 
Will, senses, mind, responding to Heaven's call. 

" Bought at whatever price Heaven is not dear," 

Sounds like an echoed chorus full of cheer. 

From crypts of mangled martyrs, and charred bon?s, 

And blood-stained phials of the catacombs: 

And that young Roman girl's adoring eyes. 

One moment darkened, opened in surprise, 

Upon the face of God. The cruel taunt 

Of judges obdurate, the accuser's vaunt. 

The mob's wild shout of triumph deep and hoarse, 

Might still be heard around the bloody corse, 

When her sweet soul, in peace, at God's own word 

Had tasted its exceeding great reward ; 

To "see as she was seen," to know as known — 

The Beatific Vision all her own. 

Upon the sacred canon's sacred page. 
Invoked by vested priest from age to age, 
Stand five fair names of virgins, martyrs all. 



Sanit Lucy. 175 

As if with some peculiar glory crowned 

That thus their names should crystallize ; "their s(niiul 

Is gone through all the eartli," and great and small 

Upon those five wise virgins sweetly call 

With reverent wish : Saint Lucy ! Agatha ! 

Agnes ! Cecilia ! Anastasia ! 

And chanted Litany those names unfold 

\n reliquary more precious than mute gold. 

With what a tender awe I heard that name — 
A household name, familiar, dear and kind. 
Of gentlest euphony — such honor claim ! 
Thenceforth that name I speak with lifted mind, 
More loved in frienc^, because revered in saint ; 
And daily as to Heaven I make complaint 
Of mortal ills, and sickness, sorrows, woes, 
This one petition doth all others close : 
" Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, by thine eyes 
Which thou didst give to God in sacrifice. 
His mercy and His solace now implore 
For darkened eyes and sightless, never more 
To gaze on aught created : by that meed 
Of choicest graces in thy hour of need, 
Sweetness of patience and a joyful mind, 
And faithful, gentle hands to guide the blind ' 



176 Day of All Souls. 

But more than this, Saint Lucy; thou didst gain, 
By loss of thy young eyes with loving pain. 
The Vision given to Angels : then obtain 
The lifting up of blinded orbs to where 
God sitteth in His beauty, the All-fair ; 
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, aid our prayer !" 



Day of All Souls. 

From the far past there comes a thought of sweetness, 
From the far past a thought of love and pain ; 

A voice, how dear ! a look of melting kindness, 
A voice, a look, we ne'er shall know again. 

A fresh, young face, perchance, of boyish gladness. 
An aged face, perchance, of patient love ; 

My heart strings fail, I sob in utter anguish, 
As past my eyes these lovely spectres move. 

The chill morn breaks, the matin star still flaming ; 

The hushed Cathedral's massive door stands wide ; 
Through the dim aisles I pass, in silent weeping. 

From mortal eyes my sorrowing tears to hide. 



Day of All Souls. 177 

Already morn has touched the painted windows ; 

The yellow dawn creeps down the storied panes ; 
Already, in the early solemn twilight, 

The sanctuary's taper softly wanes. 

My faltering step before the altar pauses ; 

My treasured dead I see remembered here ; 
All climes, all nations, lost on land or ocean. 

They on whose grave none ever drop a tear. 

The Church, their single mourner, drapes in sorrow 
The festal shrines she loves with flowers to dress : 

And " Kyrie ! Kyrie!" sighs, while lowly bending 
To Thee, O God ! to shorten their distress. 

'' Dies ira, dies ilia," sobs the choir : 
^' In pace, pace," from the altar rises higher : 
" Lux aeterna :" daylight floods the altar, 
Priest and choir take up the holy psalter. 
"Requiescant in pace !" 
Amen, amen, in pace ! 



ijS Holy Saturday. 

OLY Saturday. 



^. 






Through that Jewish Sabbath day, 
Through our Holy Saturday, 

Thus He lay : 
In His linen winding-sheet. 
Wrapped in myrrh and spices sweet, 
Angels at His head and feet ; 
Angels, duteous alway. 
Watched the wondrous, beauteous clay 

As He lay, 
Through that Jewish Sabbath day. 
Through our Holy Saturday. 

Thus He lay : 
And our Mother Church, this day, 
Doth with solemn Office keep 
That strange day's mysterious sleep ; 
Her " Exultet " breaks the sadness 
With triumphant strains of gladness ; 
Paschal Hope presaging morn. 
As in east just streaks the dawn ; 
Darkest night ere brightest day — 
Such is Holy Saturday. 



The Sign of the Cross. 179 



The 3ign of the Cross. 

O holy "sign of life," 

Most venerable, dear. 
Upon my brow, my breast, my shoulders both, 
I make the symbol of my sacred troth. 

With love and tender fear. 

No rosy morning dawns 
The long, bright year with me, 
No silent, tranquil night serenelv holds 
My passive frame in its kind mantle's folds, 
Unblessed, loved sign, by thee. 

The cross doth bless the food. 
Which does my body good ; 
Nor medicated draught my lips partake 
Unsigned by sign of Him, who, for my sake, 
Once languished on the wood. 

Nor joy nor sorrow knows 

This beating heart of mine. 

But on its brow, in heavenly lines, appears. 

Mid grateful smiles, and mild submissive tears, 

'I'his pledge of love divine. 



i8o 'The Sign of the Cross. 

In thee mv soul confides 

Sweet spell of holy might, 
When, loosed like demons from hell's dreadful gate. 
Upon my narrow path temptations wait 

To harass and affright. 

Amid their dangerous snares 

All undismayed I tread. 
For fiend or demon never can withstand 
That " sign of life," traced by believing hand, 

Which rebel angels dread. 

By thee the dead were raised, 

The faithful sick restored. 
And still beneath the blessing of the cross 
All human aids we count as worthless dross 

To win the saint's reward. 

And blessed by thee at last, 

O " sign of life," I trust 
My patient eyes in heavenly hope to close, 
When, mid the agony of mortal throes, 

My body turns to dust. 



Penance. i 8 1 



Now in Thy sacred name 

Eternal Father^ see, 
In Thy sweet name, O well-beloved Son., 
And Holy Ghost., forever three in one, 

I give myself to Thee ! 



f 



ENANCE, 



Now hie thee to thy desert, fasting soul. 
The ashes on thy head, thy sins at heart; 

On silent ways, by holy hermits trod, 
With Lenten rule and benison depart. 

The rough ways choose, which lead to glens remote. 
Where thrives for thee full many a bitter herb. 

Nor mortal pomps, nor creature-comforts, there 
The ancient, sacred solitude disturb. 

The flesh-pots of thy Egypt left behind. 

The sparse, crude berries of contrition pull. 

And patiently, on meditative knees. 

From all thy sins, so base, the basest cull. 



1 82 ' Penance. 

The wine-cup's sparkle and convivial joy 

Change for the draught which trickles from the rock, 

Whose slowly-oozing, half-reluctant drops, 
Thy rash, impatient thirst rebuke and mock. 

Thine ears now close to sounds of revel mirth. 
Thy curious eyes to sights and knowledge vain ; 

With guarded will, and heavenward-lifted eye. 
Thy inmost thought from vanity refrain. 

O ! lovely solitudes of prayer and peace ! 

With holy violence thy joys to win. 
How speed my feet along the thorny ways. 

And kindly pains of penitence begin. 

Vain, boastful world, no more I crave thy smiles. 
The desert woos me with its sacred charms. 

And fleshly sloth, and self's deluding love. 
And swift temptation's wily dart disarms. 

Hail ! desert courts to Heaven's eternal joys ; 

Hail ! peaceful wilds where schemes of folly end ; 
To climb thy steeps how short the painful way 

By which our contrite souls to bliss ascend ! 



Confession, \ 83 

Confession. 

Incline thine ear 

O Lord, and hear ! 
My soul in whispers faint 
Would utter its complaint ; 
Its hidden hurt disclose, 
Which banishes repose ; 

Sweet Jesu, hear ! 

Celestial Friend, 

Still lowlier bend : 
With sobs I would declare 
My inmost sin, nor spare 
My guilty, guilty shame, 
Nor hide my wretched blame ; 

Just Lord, attend ! 

O crowned head 

Which for me bled ! 
My pride in dust I lay ; 
Vain honors of a day, 
I weep your base-born power 
Whose thorn outlives the flower ; 

Smite, Lord, mv head ! 



Confession, 

O Jesu mild, 

Lamb undefiled ! 
My hot, misguided will 
Stands dumb, rebuked and still : 
Before thy judgment-seat, 
Our judgments judgment meet ; 

Spare, Jesu mild ! 

O crucified. 

Who for me died ! 
Into thy heart's retreat. 
Thy dear compassion's seat, 
I press with eager pain 
Thy inmost sense to gain ; 

Hail, wounded side ! 

Thy inmost ear 
Incline and hear ! 
Into this loved recess 
I pour my sin's excess ; 
O to my soul declare 
Thou wilt in mercy spare ; 
Dispel my fear. 



Confession. 185 

patient Friend ! 
"Speak, I attend." 

These ills which so infest 
My heart, I do detest — 
Detest, and loathe, and dread, 
Of foul corruption bred ; 
My God, defend ! 

" The heavens descend 
And justice lend !" 

whispered word of peace, 
Lo ! sins and sorrows cease: 
In fair, baptismal white, 

In innocence bedight 

1 humbly bend. 

dewy morn 
Of justice born ! 

Henceforth, O dreadful shade 
Of hell, be thou afraid ! 

1 pluck thy guilty crest ! 
I trample on thy breast ! 

1 laugh to scorn ! 



t86 Absolution. 

pierced feet, 
My solace sweet ! 

With Magdalene I dress 
Thy wounds with love's excess : 
Whom thou hast most forgiven, 
Most dearly loves thee. Heaven 

1 claim thv feet ! 



/ 



BSOLUTION, 



At the beautiful gate of thy mercy, O Lord, 
Deformed and abased sits my soul in its shame ; 

O faith of Saint Peter, O love of Saint John, 
Breathe o'er me of Jesus the glorified Name. 

Like the hart on the mountains I long for thy streams, 
O fountain of justice ! O fountain of truth ! 

And sigh for the word that can more than renew 
All the innocent gladness and beauty of youth. 



Christ in the Eucharist. 187 

One moment a cripple, transformed by that name, 
Exulting I leap from the dust of my dole. 

Sweet waters of peace trickle soft o'er my brow, 
And wash every stain from my penitent soul. 

At the beautiful gate of thy mercy, O Lord, 

One gush of sweet prayer let me offer through tears ; 

The morning has dawned with its fragrance and dews 
O'er the land that was sitting in darkness and fears. 



Christ in the Eucharist. 

"Lord, that I may see." Luke xviii, 41. 

Blind Bartimeus by the wayside, begging 

Not alms but sight. 
Thus wait I, Lord, upon thy royal coming, 

Still asking light. 

Not mortal lore, not skill of human wisdom. 

With tears I crave ; 
Thyself, th' eternal ray, the uncreated, 

Alone canst save. 



i88 Christ in the Eucharist. 

O thou Incarnate Word thus humbly dwelling 

Within my breast, 
All mortal love, all mortal wish excelling, 

In thee all quest 

Finds blissful end ; thou beam of mild perfection. 

Pierce this blind heart ! 
Instruct, command, entrance, its will compelling 

To choose thy part. 

Thou mortal wish, forever guard cold silence ; 

Eyes, turn from earth ; 
Though chains may clank, I have in thee my portion. 

Sweet land of birth. 

No sculptured urns of dust, funereal ashes 

Entomb desire ; 
The spark still seeks, amid sepulchral vapors, 

The parent fire. 

Thou Light of Light, still hold my feeble vision, 

Absorb me quite ; 
With thee above is wisdom sight transcending, 

All else is night. 



Espousals. 189 



f 



SPOUSALS. 



Haste to thy nuptials sweet 
With glowing feet, 

Thy inmost chamber fair, 
O heart, prepare, 

Therein, with joy, to bring 
Thy spouse and king. 

I see his coming light. 
Disperse my night ! 

O radiant orb of day. 
Thou may'st delay 

To quench thy feeble rays 
In heaven's own blaze. 

Lo ! Seraph tongues of flame 
Announce that name. 

Whose echoed sweetness clings 
Where'er it rings ; 

And thus informs with sound. 
Remotest bound. 



1 90 The Sacristan, 

happy ears attend, 

And lowlier bend ! 

1 feel his noiseless pace 

Through heaven's blue space -, 
The stars but strew his floor, 
And thus adore. 

Celestial Presence dear ! 

Thou Godhead near ! 
I yield my soul, my sense \ 

Omnipotence ! 
Behold, prepared, thy throne ; 

O claim thine own. 



"Phe Sacristan. 

Lord, I have loved the beauty of Thy house." 

Within thine altar's shade. 
Lord, I my nest have made, 

No more to roam ; 
Thine own abiding-place 
Is mine for future space, 

JVIy rest, my home. 



The Sacristan. \ 9 1 

Ye summer gardens, bring 
Your treasures to my King : 

The lily, rose, 
Each dewy, odorous flower 
In forest, dingle, bower. 

Deck His repose. 



O gems of costliest ray, 
Your beaming homage pay 

To Him whose word 
Heaven's azure concave bright. 
With worlds on worlds of light, 

Creative stored. 



O summer perfumes rare. 
His tabernacle fair 

Incense with sweets ; 
Each aromatic sigh 
To Him, our Lord so nigh, 

For us entreats. 



1^2 '^he Sacristan. 

O loveliest hues of morn, 
This hushed recess adorn 

With crimson blush ; 
Lo ! ranks of seraphs bow, 
Before His altar now, 

With livelier flush. 



The earth, the air, the sea 
Rejoice to serve with me. 

With me to wait ; 
For prostrate nature sighs 
To see her Lord disguise 
His heavenly state. 



O Heaven's ecstatic choir. 
Our feeble homage fire ; 

Transport our sense 
Beyond this mortal screen, 
To worship the unseen 

Omnipotence ! 



Thanksgiving. 1 93 



Thank 



SGIYING. 



Alter receiving the Holy Viaticum and Extreme Unction. 

" One Shepherd and one fold," 
Such are thy people told 

Their lot shall be ; 
Led by love's tranquil care 
O'er breezy pastures fair, 

Sweet Lord, by thee. 

On this sure word of thine, 
Lord, like thyself divine, 

1 mildly rest, 
By vague unspoken fear 
Of death's cold passage drear 

No more opprest. 

Though subtle, sharp disease 
Rob this frail flesh of ease, 

Untouched by pain. 
My soul, on eagle's wings. 
Still soars o'er mortal things 

Life's height to gain. 
9 



y4 Thanksgiving. 

For lo ! upon my bed 
My God His table spread, 

Himself the food ; 
Himself the mystic wine, 
Himself the bread divine — 

Supernal good. 

My head with oil most sweet 
He did anoint, my feet, 

Each wayward sense 
Which from His gentle sway 
So oft had turned away. 

And wrought offence. 

My God, my cup runs o'er ; 
Life, death, I ask no more. 

Nought but Thy will : 
United thus to me. 
Each wish now turns to Thee 

Thine to fulfil ! 




"The Guest. 195 



The Guest, 



Mid the feverish air, the studied silence, 
Homesick fancies of my small sick-room. 

Mid its restless needs, its vague disquiets. 

Creeping, stalking through the curtained gloom. 

Rose an altar, how serene, how lovely ! 

Lighted taper, pictures fair and meet, 
Bethlehem's crib, our I^adv crowned in glorv, 

Martyred Agnes, young and calm and sweet. 

Broad, green leaves and white and fragrant chalice, 
Thus my lily bloomed beside the shrine ; 

Tender ivy-branches round the pictures 
Seemed to love to climb and intertwine. 

While above, exceeding all in comfort. 
Hung the crucihx, all lo\'c, all grief: 

Never turned I on mv wearv pillow 
Asking patience, but it gave relief. 



196 57z^ Guest. 

Thus it stood, my altar, so benignly, 
Mid the sickly twilight and the pain ; 

Kind friends pitied ; shall I try to tell you 
How all loss was quickly turned to gain ? 

In the early mornings to my altar 

Came a Guest, how shall I give His name ? 
Lord of Angels ? Bethlehem's shivering stranger ? 

Highest, Lowliest, yet the very same. 

You, perchance, who met Him at the doorway, 
Did not heed the Guest you welcomed in ; 

Yet He came, the same who once on Calvary 
Ransomed you and me from death and sin. 

Pale the taper at His brighter coming. 
Dim the lily near His whiteness seemed; 

Can it be you of that Real Presence 
Never understood or even dreamed ? 

Many a kindly guest and friend beloved 
Sought me in my sickness and distress ; 

Friends whose names, in mild and holy cadence, 
Live within mv memorv to bless. 



A Hidden God. T97 

Yet, before all friends, this One celestial 
Will my grateful love, my homage, claim ; 

Angel tongues can never breathe the sweetness, 
Never hint the wonders, of His name. 



JK Hidden God, 



" Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself, a hidden G.)d." isaias. 
" Draw nic ; we will run after thee to the odor of thy perfumes." cant. 

Lord, into lowly ways 
Of hidden love and praise 

My feet direct ; 
The pilgrims poor and meek. 
Who heavenly kingdoms seek. 

Angels protect. 

On Lazarus at the gate 
Celestial legions wait ; 

O envied pain ! 
Which could, for mortal tears. 
Through all th' eternal years. 

Such solace gain. 



198 A Hidden God, 

With Nazareth's lowly maid, 
Beneath her cottage shade, 

Let me abide ; 
The mystic distaff ply 
With recollected eye. 

At Mary's side. 



With Nazareth's wondrous boy 
To walk in speechless joy. 

This joy be mine : 
With awed, adoring eyes, 
To worship in disguise 

The Lord divine. 



O hush of wonder dear ! 
O trance of loving fear ! 

To heavenlier deeps 
Of God's humiliation. 
Of yearning abnegation. 

Transported, leaps. 



A Hidden God. \ 99 

riic ravished soul, before 
Thy tabernacle door, 

My Lord, my God ! 
O, what are words to Thee, 
Ecstatic Trinity, 

Three, One, vet God ! 



Here, prostrate and afraid. 
The mystery's awful shade 

Dissolves me, quite; 
My Dove, my Undefiled, 
My spouse, than spouse more mild. 

Too pure for sight ! 



O hidden God, most fair. 
Thy hidden life to share, 

Thv abnegation. 
So sweetly doth ensnare 
My every thought and care 

And aspiration, 



200 A Hidden God. 

That subtlest touch or sight 
Of all thy glories bright, 

Could not so move 
My sense of near delight, 
Or to such faith excite 

Adoring love. 

Of life's broad glare afraid, 
The tabernacle shade 

Invites to peace ; 
Here, lost in winding maze 
Of Jesus' hidden ways. 

Time's echoes cease.^ 

O for thine eye, chaste dove. 
To contemplate my love. 

Nor ever turn 
My faithful orbs away 
From that far vision's ray, 

P'or which I burn ! 




Early Mass. . 2.01 



Early Mass, 



Upon my Lord I wait 
When morning's pearly gate 

Doth first unclose ; 

That first chaste smile I greet, 

To liQ:ht me to His feet, . 

My heart's repose. 

() pale thv feeble light, last, lingering star, 

1 wait a kindlier beam through spaces far ! 



Thy voice but now I hear, 
C) cheery chanticleer. 

Morn's herald brave ; 
A clarion note as clear 
Shall break thy slumbers drear, 
O mighty grave ! 
The while I weep, as daily I recall 
The Master's look of grief o'er Peter's fal 



202 Early Mass, 

With hasty, joyful feet, 
I tread the empty street ; 

Its sacred hush 

Is sweeter to my ear 

Than words of friendly cheer. 

Or song of thrush ; 

For through the dim, gray air I see the place 

Where dwells my Lord in ecstasy of grace. 

The altar tapers gleam 
Upon my blissful dream ; 

O rapture bright ! 
Hail ! lovely Presence, hail ! 
Enshrined within the veil. 
To mortal sight ! 
How low, sweet Lord, must dust and ashes bow. 
The glory, Lord, be thine, forever ! now ! 




Visit to an Empty Tabernacle. 203 



Visit to an Empty Tabernacle 

O pilgrim feet, from brambles bleeding ; 

O heart dejected, faint with toil ; 
What good can touch thy bitter needing, 

What ease this chafe of mortal coil ? 

O lovely portals, heaven disclosing! 

O shady dell of pilgrim-rest ! 
Lord, let me at Thy feet reposing. 

With sighs of love relieve my breast. 

Fair lamp of joy, thy light extinguished — 
What sickly fears oppress my heart ? 

These fading flowers alike have languished. 
And to my soul their grief impart. 

O gentle Prisoner of love. 

Thou kinglv patience, meekness crowned ! 
Ah ! where has flown the mystic Dove, 

Who on my love has never frowned ? 



204. ''''Behold 1 Stand at the Door and Knock."" 

Sweet Lord, whom faith and sight endear, 
What joys, mysterious, veil Thee round ! 

Thy hush of absence we revere. 

And mutely kiss the blissful ground. 

My Dove, my Spouse ! mine eyelids wash 

In milk of innocency dear. 
And sweetly hold my soul abash 

In happy trance of holy fear. 

— — ? — iS55 — 5— — 

"J3ehold T Stand at the Dooi^^ 
AND Knock." 

APOCALYPSE iii, 10. 

This night a traveller at my door 

So mildly knocked, had knocked before ; 

I knew that footstep sad and meek, 

I knew it would my threshold seek ; 

I knew his sweet and gracious name. 

Wherefore he called, and whence he came : 

Could I that gentle summons hear 

And yet refuse throu2;h sloth or fear ? 



' "" Behold I Stand at the Door and Knocks 205 

With trembling hands the latch I raised ; 
I worshipped e'er with rapture gazed ; 
The cold night-dews His garments wet, . 
A crown of thorns His brow beset, 
His bleeding feet the tale could tell 
Of lambs astray in slippery dell. 
Yet milder than a moonbeam's lance 
The mornful eyes benignant glance. 

My humble door stood open wide — 
"With me, sweet Jesus, deign to bide ; 
No other guest has here a place, 
No friend, no spouse, my board to grace ; 
With Mary's tears I'll bathe Thy feet. 
And spikenard of contrition sweet 
Shall heal the hands, the feet, the side 
Whose piteous wounds are gaping wide !" 



A smile whose radiance chano^ed the nio-ht 
To glory holier far than light — 
A smile whose peace is more than rest, 
Which makes the jo\ of all the blessed — 



2o6 Sudden but not Unprovided. 

Broke o'er my soul, entranced my sight, 
Turned all my loneliness to delight, 
Then softly through the blissful door 
The King of Glory passed once more. 

The way-prints of those sacred feet 

I mutely kiss as they retreat ; 

And watch the thorn-encircled head 

Round which celestial halos spread. 

As through the midnight gloom and rain 

He walks His weary watch again 

To knock, perchance, at many a door 

Where He has knocked in vain before. 



BUT NOT Unprovided. 



Sudden but not U 



IN MEMORY OF THE 

MOST REV. FRANCIS PATRICK KENRICK, D. D., 

ARCHBISHOP OF BALTIMORE. 



In the mid-watch of night, when the world holds its 

breath. 
Sped an angel from God, the dread angel of death ; 



Sudden but not Unprovided. IQ-J 

Not a whisper of warning, no sign and no word — 
Not a watchman was startled, no aspen leaf stirred ; 
Not a shadow was thrown on the moonlighted wall 
As he passed up the stairway and flitted through hall ; 
But alone, to the meek, holy sleeper, was given 
The summons which opened the portals of heaven. 

Where, ah! where was the priest who, on ocean, o'er 

wild. 
Had tracked his least steps with the awe of a child ; 
And what spell had the night, when a deacon so true 
Felt no chill in the air as the death-arrow flew ! 
Where the young who all loved him with that deep 

emotion. 
Which is half of affection and half of devotion ; 
For they caught in the sanctified grace of his mien 
The soft gleam of a nimbus no meekness could screen ! 

Where the old he instructed, the wise who revered. 
Where the poor he had succored, the sick he had 

cheered. 
Where the homeless he sheltered, and tell me, O where 
Were the strayed lambs, now safe in the fold by his 

care ? 



ao8 A Family Motto, 

For the morning dawned blankly upon that still face 
So benignant in goodness, effulgent in grace ; 
And the hand, ever lifted in benison, lay 
Pulseless, lifeless, a sorrowful relic of clay ! 

Cease thy questioning sigh, cease thy subtle complaint, 
And adore the hushed wonders of God in His saint ; 
Hidden life, hidden death ! — hidden crown now adorns 
The mild brow which but asked for a circlet of thorns ; 
For the angels took place of poor mortals beside 
His peaceful death-bed and gave praise as he died ; 
And the ages will seal what with tears we record 
Of the might of his prayer and the fruit of his word. 



A Family Motto, 



A well-proportioned ancient shield. 
And on the azure-tinted field 
The red crusader-cross : 
Words scarce could tell at what a loss 

* The arms of the author's maternal ancestors, the Allens of Chelms- 
ford, Essex — evidently those of a crusader — are: Sable ^ a cross potent. 
Or. Motto: Fortiter gerit Crucem. — Crest: a demi-lion a^wr^, holding in 
the two paws the rudder of a vessel, Or. 



A Family Motto. 209 

The well-read scholar stood — 
In what an earnest, startled mood, 
Beneath the ancient, comely shield, 
And red cross on the azure field. 

This motto's thread 

He whispering read, 

^^ For titer gerit crucem.'' 

A true crusader, staunch and bold. 
Was he, my good ancestor old. 

Who thus could boast his cross 
He bore unmindful of the loss : 

" Strong, strong his cross to bear," 
Comes down in characters most fair ; 
Comes down a glory unto me 
Through many a bloody century ; 

The good seed kept. 

Though old faith slept — 

'''■Fortiter gerit crucc?n.'^ 

Though old faith slept ! a deep blush came 
Across his cheek, a blush of shame : 

That bold crusader's cross. 
Borne in the very teeth of loss, 



2IO A Family Motto. 

No longer worn with pride ; 
His conscience told him, laid aside 
Like some base superstition's sign : 
That cross, which from high heaven will shine, 

When men shall hear. 

With joy or fear, 

^^ For titer gerit crucem.'''' 

Years passed ; his quickened eye had scanned 
The archives rich of many a land. 

Yet still a purpose named 
Not to himself each spoil had claimed ; 

And day by day to hail 
On truth's horizon some new sail. 
Strange sweetness sent through all his veins. 
Till to his contrite breast he strains 

That cross severe. 

While angels hear, 

^'' For titer gerit crucem.''^ 




Spinis Coronati. 1 1 i 

Spinis Coronati. 

'^ Thy crown of thorns, sweet Christ, but once to 

wear, 
Thy pain, O jovtul pain, but once to share !" 
Thus sighed a faithful soul one morn in prayer. 

'' Those very thorns, more piercing sharp than steel. 
Around my brow but once, O Christ, to feel 
Would every lesser smart and anguish heal !" 

More swift than light the answer to her praver ; 

Obedient angels held above in air 

The crown of thorns she asked with tears to wear. 

But ere upon her brow that crown they prest — 
Precaution mild, the prudence of the bless'd — 
Of grace bestowed they make this gentle test : 

Upon her forehead, bowed in sweet desire, 
A thorn, yet scarce a thorn — a single briar — 
Fell, fraught with all the Passion's dreadful ire. 



212 The Divine Prisoner s Flower. 

A deadly swoon her failing senses drowned ; 

All pain was lost in agony's astound, 

Till steeped in sweetness, sighed a voice profound : 

" Thy wish accepted, little one, forbear ; 
The garden's woe disciples could not share ; 
Blame not thyself if I thy weakness spare. 

" My bloodless martyrs have in heaven renown, 
Which claims, and wins, the martyr's shining crown-, 
Thy will has made the action's grace thine own." 



The Divine Prisoner's FLo^A^ER. 

[from the FRENCH.] 

Between two flag-stones bare and cold, 
From prison earth, from prison mould, 
A tender plant sprang up to sight. 
The lonely prisoner's sole delight. 



The Divine Prisoners Flower, 213 

Beside the bastion's lowering wall 
Some bird had dropped a seedling small ; 
The captive's smile each leaflet cheers, 
The plant is watered by his tears. 

O my sweet Master, by that cell 
Where Thou, love's prisoner, dost dwell, 
Where, by a miracle, my God 
Has fixed, for time. His own abode — 

My heart, like that poor, tiny seed. 
Would plant itself, nor fear to need 
The Master's smile, the Master's tear, 
To nurse devotion's blossoms dear. 

The crowds, unthinking, pass Thee by ; 
The busy world its trade must ply ; 
And those for whom Thy heart most pines 
Heed not the captive's loving signs. 

My Jesus, from this very hour 
O let me be the prisoner's flower ; 
No other lot in life so sweet 
As thus to blossom at Thy feet. 



214 ^-^^^ Good Shepherd. 



The Good Shepherd. 

O gentle shepherd, loveliest and best ! 
Were I the lamb on thy meek shoulder laid, 
By thy mild hand so calmly, kindly stayed, 
My cheek to thine with such love-fulness presseJ 
As in those taintless lineaments expressed — 
How far so'er my erring feet had strayed. 
All mortal smart, all sorrow, were allayed, 
All fears subdued in my o'er anxious breast : 
The wayside brambles, flinty steep forgot. 
The wilds through which my venturous wishes led, 
The hidden ill at which I inly bled — 
All these to me would be as they were not ; 
And in this one embrace, all silent given, 
My contrite soul would taste the fullest peace of 
Heaven. 




Sounet. 



Son 



NET. 



What boots the body's weal, its health or ease, 
The heavy heart in weariness or pain, 
Imparting to the frame the nameless bane 
Of its own languor and concealed disease ? 
In vain the mountain air, the expanse of seas, 
The (juict beauty of the embosomed plain, 
'Fhe thousand powers, which through all nature reign 
With such a blessed charm to heal and please. 
Too subtle for complaint, subdued for tears, 
The grief which makes that chastened face so pale. 
And thins the air those patient lips inhale ; 
Yet that meek grief some holy solace hears, 
A far-off hope the enduring spirit cheers. 
For Heaven has promised peace, though all the world 
should fail. 



2i6 Mount Hope Asylum. 



Mount Wope Asylum. 

Mount Hope, upon thy fair, majestic dome, 

Serenely crowning yon green summit high, 

I look with moist and melancholy eye, 

Yet bless thee as the wandering maniac's home ; 

Where, unrebuked, yet safely still, may roam 

His fancies wild ; as to some sheltered beach 

The storm-lashed ocean's maddened billows reach, 

To break in harmless, iridescent foam. 

Within thy walls great woes great solace meet : 

Those " sweet bells jangled" yet may be restored 

To clearest harmony and just accord. 

In thy divinely tranquilized retreat ; 

As once, obedi^ent to the heavenly Word, 

The youth sat joyful at the Master's feet. 




"•To the August Cricket. 



To THE August pRicKET, 



With lightly-tripping rhyme and amorous song, 

We welcome youthful April's warblers gay ; 

Young loves, young hopes and promised bliss of May 

The tuneful, vernal ecstasy prolong. 

Nor will we do thee, drowsy insect, wrong. 

Though with more tranquil numbers, more serene. 

We welcome thee unto this Summer scene, 

And joys that to its gorgeous bloom belong. 

By thy shrill monotone among the grass 

We know that Summer's ripest days have come : 

With their fledged broods the parent robins pass 

O'er breezy wood and gayly-flowered morass ; 

While mortals, by a mournful prescience, see 

Bleak stubble-fields, and Autumn's leafless tree. 



2 1 8 • ' 'To Snow-Flake. 



To Snow-Flake. 



In vain, poor brute ; none heed thy bitter plaint, 
The tender instinct of thy motherhood 
Quite set aside ; even human brotherhood 
Since Adam's fall must plead till hope is faint ; 
And seldom, since the days of that dear saint, 
Sweet Anthony, have proud men understood 
Pity for that brute world, whose all of good 
And happiness is by our sin attaint. 
Yet, gentle creature, whose full udder brings 
Food to the peasant, nourishment to kings. 
Some solace may to thy mild race belong 
More potent than this vainly-pitying song. 
Which from a deep-set fountain sorrowing springs- 
A sense of human guilt and nature's wrong. 




Expectation. 2 1 9 



f 



XPECTATION 



Why comes it not, love sadly questions, why. 

The precious missive from thy thoughtful hand ? 

The willing messengers all ready stand 

To bear thy token 'neath a friendly skv ; 

For with the freight of but one faithful sigh 

The keenest winds had sure grown kind and bland. 

And with their eager pinions gayly fanned 

The lettered tones to my impatient eye. 

Yet, wherefore watch I in such claiming guise? 

Few joys do on large expectation wait ; 

But noiseless glide beneath an humbler gate. 

There to make glad, with quick and sweet surprise. 

Some smiling Patience with contented eyes. 

Low-seated, in the calm of uncxpcctant state. 



V.^, 



'220 "^he Dying Sumach. 



The Dying Sumach. 

The autumnal glory of this Sumach leaf — 

Whose leaflets, with a dying languor droop 

Upon their stem, like some fair, tender group 

Of sisters struck by one domestic grief. 

To which no hope of earth can bring relief — 

So touches heart and sense, I inly stoop 

With sympathetic grief; sad leaf, no dupe. 

Though thou art type of all things, frail and brief. 

So deftly pictured, with such feeling art, 

Dear pupil, friend, thy flushing Sumach's dyes 

And mortal languors, that I {q^\ a part 

Of thy own being and thy gentle heart 

Has passed into the leaf, and friendship sighs 

To think that tender sense must bide affliction's dart. 



W^ 




T^he Violin and Violoncello. 



The Violin and Violoncello. 

O tender Viols, that with more than touch 

Of mortal pathos' haunt my memory still, 

It is no trick of art or cunning skill 

^Vhich starts my tears, and moves my heart to sue) 

A plaintive sweetness, as if life so much 

Of joy had known, the brimming cup must spill, 

And thus send heavenward, in a shining rill. 

The joys too sacred for this world to clutch. 

No wonder that those pious artists, old. 

In angel hands my favorite viols place ; 

The calm cheek touching, with a blissful grace. 

The instrument, whose harmonies unfold 

A love no mortal lip has ever told. 

The seraph's spark which fires our human race. 



2 22 Anniversary. 



Jkn 



NIVERSARY. 



The brooding July noon, the still, deep heats 
Upon the full-leaved woods and flowering maize, 
The first wheat-harvest, and the torrid blaze. 
Which on the sweating reapers fiercely beats 
And drives each songster to its own retreats — 
Much less the stately lily of the field, 
Gorgeous in scarlet, whose large anthers yield 
The honey-bee meet prison for its sweets, 
A flame amid the meadow-land's rich green — 
With the revolving year is never seen, 
But o'er the sunny landscape creeps a shade 
Of solemn recollection. Lilies ! lean 
Your biilliant coronals where once was laid 
A boy's brow grand in death, and " rest in peace" be 
said. 



Delia, 223 



P 



ELIA, 



There is a darkness which is still not gloom ; 

And thou, poor child — whose young but sightless eyes 

Catch no glad radiance from the summer skies, 

Worse still neglected in thy blindness, whom 

Those nurtured like thee, in the self-same womb. 

Have cast on strangers, strangers truly wise 

Since more than waif of gold such charge thcv prize — 

Hast found a joy what others call a doom. 

Thou knowest the way unto the chapel door ; 

And kneeling softly on its blessed floor 

Thou art no longer blind ; the presence there 

Reveals Itself to thy adoring prayer ; 

Hours fly with thee that altar's Guest before, 

Till, cowards, we envy what we dare not share. 




224 "^he Keokuk Pebble. 

The Keokuk Pebble. 

(See Frontispiece.) 

Say not the rugged science of the rocks 

His word disproves, whose single word brought forth 

Their being out of nothing ; nature's worth 

Is based on fealty ; whoever knocks 

Demanding her choice treasures, and yet mocks 

Her worshipful allegiance, hears a tone 

Even from the heart of the insensate stone 

Reproaching him who scoffs while he unlocks. 

Bear witness, shivered pebble, in whose breast 

The crystallizing ages have confessed 

To Him, whom worldly wisdom crucified ; 

Signed with that sign, the cross, which sects deride. 

The rocks do thus their solemn faith attest. 

Rebuking man, not science, for rash pride. 




